Small Comforts
by LollyMc
Summary: John and Sherlock have to endure living together, but they dont always have to like it. Cute little ficlets. Friendship fic. Read and review please. Dedicated to my beautiful best friend and love of my life, Q :
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One - Boat Trip

Sherlock smirked and ran haphazardly to the other side, his coat swishing in the wind.

"Stop it. Right now," John Watson warned, trying to keep his tone level and firm, commanding but gentle, anything to get through to Sherlock like this. They rocked dangerously and John clung to the side with both hands.

"Don't you _see_? It's the only way to know for sure," Sherlock's face was flushed red as he yelled over the wind; he was exhilarated.

"I'm warning you!" John nearly screamed as with one last rocking effort the consulting detective managed to capsize the fishing boat.

The freezing water hit the two men like a slap and John's teeth immediately began chattering.

"I am g-g-going to kill you," he muttered as they swam from underneath the upturned little vessel.

Sherlock grabbed his friend's wrist and grinned as they awkwardly trod water, "Not important now! This was no accident. This was murder. Ah, excellent, _excellent_."

Watson yanked his hand back and started to swim for shore, wondering why the death of one person could make the life of another's so much more interesting.

"Wait!"

The doctor turned his head in surprise and was taken aback when he saw Sherlock Holmes doing an extremely improvised version of the doggie paddle and looking decidedly anxious.

"Are you honestly telling me you don't know how to swim?" John guffawed then regretted it after swallowing a mouthful of seawater.

"U-u-useless," Sherlock went slightly red in embarrassment and John, taking pity on the man, (and in truth, not wanting to swim all the way back) helped right the boat and get his friend and himself inside.

"So swimming is useless then?" asked the doctor once they were both safely snuggled up in blankets by the fireside in the hotel room.

"A waste of my very precious brain space," Sherlock said, looking condescendingly at John.

"And if you'd drowned today?"

"You'd never have let me."

John sighed, resigned to the fact that this was 100% true.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Beach

Before him was a sight he never thought he'd see.

A darkly cloaked man crouching in the sand at Weston-super-Mare muttering to himself, scrabbling. This wouldn't be so shocking, but it was Sherlock Holmes, genius detective and he was playing the sand like he was five years old.

John tiptoed forward, not wanting to announce his approach. Stifling giggles, he tapped the man's shoulder.

Sherlock swiftly knocked down his creation and, in the same move, turned to glare at Watson.

"What?" he snapped, brushing the sand around him clear.

"What are you doing?" John smiled, tapping his foot as he studied Sherlock's expression.

"Building a scale model of Buckingham Palace complete with the changing of the guards performed by an all-shrimp cast, what do you think I'm doing? People can be so stupid," the younger man's words were so harsh and condescending that John was rather taken aback.

Well, he reasoned, I did catch him off-guard.

"I don't _know _what you're doing, that's why I asked," He replied coolly.

Sherlock sighed and mopped his brow, standing with a little difficulty. He'd been crouched there a long time and was stiff as a board.

"Deducing," he said, his voice slightly warmer and John took it that this was the only apology he was going to get, "We know the killer buried her with a shovel when she was supposedly already dead, drowned according to _Anderson_, however I noticed she had sand ingrained under her fingernails. From the colour and consistency it was deep sand, a few feet down at least,"

As he spoke his voice got faster and louder, and John shook his head at the other man's excitement.

"So, she was buried...alive," As the horror of it hit him he choked a little.

Sherlock nodded with a small smile, "Not just a random murderer John. This man was a sadist. He wanted revenge and he wanted her to hurt."

The two men walked towards the sea and John sat down heavily on a rock, gazing out at the ebbing tide.

"Why do we keep doing this Sherlock?" The doctor asked, rubbing his weary eyes.

There was a long pause where they both watched the roll and rip of the grey-blue sea and John thought he wasn't going to get an answer when Sherlock sighed.

"Because it's dangerous, because you miss the thrill of terror you had in the army and chasing murderers is one way to get it, because you can witness my truly astounding intellect and because you crave something more in your life and this is the what you've found that fills said craving," Sherlock paused for breath, scarf flapping in the wind, "Do you want me to continue?"

"No," John muttered, looking away, "Thanks, I get quite enough of this from the therapist. Nosy cow,"

Sherlock smirked at his friend again. He really was fond of him, which was unexpected. They walked back to the hotel together.

* * *

"You had a bucket," John said quietly as he passed a silent, thinking Sherlock the newspaper.

"Hmmm?" Those pale blue eyes locked onto his. He clearly hadn't been listening.

"This morning," John sipped and smiled at Sherlock, "You had a _bucket_ with you while you were..." John raised his fingers into airquotes, "_deducing."_

He looked out of the pitch black window and murmured, voice soft as velvet, "Clearly I needed something to store my excavations in."

John got up and walked over to the kettle and coffee set on the small dresser. A broad smile was stealing over his face as he remembered the shock when he'd discovered the genius mucking about.

"And a plastic shovel _and_ the bucket was shaped like a castle,"

The kettle steamed and Sherlock stood up, walking slowly, almost felinely towards John.

"You really think the great Sherlock Holmes would be building sandcastles on the beach like a pathetic infant?"

John passed him the mug and when the long, delicate fingers pressed the doctor's own in thanks he felt a deep happiness that only comes from being with people you like.

"If the boot fits," John said, taking a long sip, "Next time you should ask me for help, I'm pretty damn good at moats and bridges,"

Sherlock scoffed and went back to reading the paper. But he couldn't help envision the two of them standing proudly over an intricately beautiful castle in the sand.


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3 – Shopping

Sherlock was sulking. This wasn't very unusual but John really couldn't deal with it today. He had to go to work in an hour and the flat was an ungodly mess.

He'd done a quick check of the whole building to assess if he had time to clear up before it was time to leave. It was a decided _no. _

First off there was the living room: books, papers, mugs and cushions strewn everywhere. Plus a moody consulting detective curled on the sofa in his classic thinking pose, hands to his lips.

John had also taken a cursory scout in both the bathroom and Sherlock's bedroom. They were chaotic and he decided that an air freshener would make a good investment for the flat as a whole.

And then there was the kitchen; John didn't know what the gloopy brown-red substance dripping out of the tubes was and he certainly didn't want to find out, as it smelled revolting. On top of all that, the fridge and cupboards were empty...well, empty of anything remotely edible, John decided.

"Sherlock," he said, coming over to the sofa and perching on the arm. His leg was beginning to ache, "I have to leave in a bit,"

"And this would interest me because?" Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at his flatmate with undisguised hostility.

"Because I would like, for once, to come home to something to eat –"

Sherlock raised his finger but John interrupted him.

"- that _isn't _a takeaway," the doctor looked pointedly at his stomach, "I need to keep in shape,"

The consulting detective sprang from the couch with surprising agility. Though John had seen him fight many times now, he was still amazed by how fit and flexible Sherlock was. Especially as he seemed to do little else but sit still, thinking most of the time.

"So what do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"Will you please just nip to Tesco today and get-"

"No."

"- some veg...wait what? Why?"

"Because it's a waste of my time."

John stood up, trying to look as imposing as he could though it was pretty hard. Sherlock was a tall man and he looked down at his flatmate with an amused smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"And sitting around here, just _sitting here_ isn't?" John said indignantly.

Sherlock tutted and his eyes flashed cold in the sunlight.

"Look, I thought you might have realised by now that what I do needs _time_ to think, to complete the puzzle, so if you wouldn't bother me with your insignificant little problems then.."

He had pushed it too far now.

This really was the final straw.

John raised his voice and clenched his fists in anger.

"LOOK YOU! I am _not_ your maid, or your pet or someone you can push around or order about whenever the moods take you Sherlock Holmes," John paused, taking deep breaths trying to clear the red mist, "If you haven't done the shopping by the time I get back then I'm moving out. For good. And you'll have to find another lackey."

With that, he stalked over to the coat rack, grabbed his jacket and flounced out the door, slamming it behind him.

As the door rattled on its hinges, Sherlock Holmes sat down and rubbed his hands together thoughtfully.

"Well, well, well. Quite the ultimatum Dr. Watson," he murmured before snatching up his wallet and slinging on his trademark black coat and scarf.

* * *

When John came home he was fuming only slightly less than he had been when he left. All day at work he'd been in an awful temper and had subsequently snapped at Sarah and upset her.

So now he was really mad and ready to hang, draw and quarter Sherlock if he was just lazing around, though half of him was tiredly resigned to the fact that this would probably be the case.

However when he opened the door it took a substantial amount of effort not to fall over in surprise, and he was glad of the cane in his hand. On the floor sat a man who looked close to tears, surrounded by a sea of shopping bags, receipts and random objects scattered around.

"What...on...earth?" John finally managed to get out.

"You didn't warn me, John, that shopping was quite so _complicated _and _time consuming,_" Sherlock said, in such a defeated voice that the doctor had a sudden and nearly irrepressible urge to fling his arm around the man who looked so much like a lost child.

"I didn't think – wait. Have you ever done this before?" John shook his head in disbelief and took another glance at the bagged and unbagged items that lay haphazardly on the floor.

"I've never had reason to," Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly and stared at the mess, "Plus there seemed to be an abundance of more than generous deals..."

John chortled and nudged a bag with his foot, "Do tell me Sherlock, why you thought we were ever going to need ten rolls of tin foil and practically the whole of the baking decorations aisle?"

"...It was buy one get one free."

John was laughing in earnest now, eyes watering, "And _when_ did you think we'd need an egg slicer and two box sets of CSI: Miami? You _hate_ CSI: Miami,"

The detective twitched with indignation, "I thought they might make fitting presents for Lestrade..." John stared at him in shock, Sherlock buying presents was just too strange to comtemplate, "The banality of the plot quite matches his intellect" Ah, that made more sense, "Plus they were fifty percent off."

John twitched a little when he surveyed the mountain of generally obsolete items covering the floorboards.

He tried to approach the subject with care, "Did you uh, um, buy any...food?"

Sherlock looked at him scathingly and pointed to the three bags in the corner, half tucked under the sofa. John groaned when he saw what was so unmistakably three bags full of Pot Noodles. Evil things. He'd eaten little else when he was an adolescent and come to loathe the taste that took him back to his past.

"Why?" John muttered, not really intending for Sherlock to hear, "Vegetables I asked. Simple."

Something that sounded a lot like a stifled sob made him turn and stare at his friend.

"What's up?" John was aghast and he moved to awkwardly pat Sherlock on the shoulder; he hadn't expected it to be this much of a drama (it was only shopping) and honestly never had any intentions of moving out. He liked the flat and he liked the person he shared it with even more.

"I'm sorry I messed up," Sherlock said in a monotone, "Let's pack everything away. I can return most of it tomorrow."

While the two sorted what to take back and what to keep (in case they ever needed it) John thought and decided it was best if he asked Mrs Hudson to do their shopping, or even get it online after this catastrophe.

Later, when there were about twenty bags left by the door for Sherlock to take back the following day, John spoke up.

"I think maybe next time I'll do the shopping," John said, throwing himself onto the sofa. He was exhausted. Seeing Sherlock wince he backtracked, "Not that you did a bad job, I just don't want to waste your time..."

Urgh, he knew the lie sounded false but seeing his friend looking this upset about something so trivial made John feel..._guilty._

Sherlock nodded slightly and told John he'd go put the kettle on to boil. He grimaced at the idea of Pot Noodles, but seeing as he'd acquired the damned things he supposed he'd have to eat them. And besides, he reasoned with a self-satisfied smirk, there was no chance in Hell John would let him near a supermarket after this.

* * *

Next morning John awoke with a new spring in his step and vowed to be nicer than ever to Sarah. Maybe then she'd go on another date with him.

With all these good intentions John Watson stepped out his front door straight into the bustling track of Mrs Hudson.

"Good morning,"

"Good morning dear!"

"See you later; I'll be home around 6,"

"Oh yes wait, before you go. Was Sherlock happy with the shop?" John stopped in his tracks, "It really was a very complicated order. All that baking foil...I do wonder about that boy," She gasped, "Oh I do hope he hasn't got some poor animal in there again,"

He turned, making very sure, absolutely certain that he didn't lose it.

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson," He was keeping very calm just until he could get confirmation, "Did you say that he _asked __you_to get all those...things?"

"Why yes dear," She looked confused, "In fact he said you'd practically ordered him to..."

She was left talking to empty space as the doctor turned tail.

When John's furiously loud voice blasted through the apartment, Sherlock cursed in annoyance. _Well_, he thought, _I really should have factored in Mrs. Hudson's mouth. It's certainly big enough._

**Love you guys! Next chapter coming soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

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**Please keep reading, next chapter coming soon x**

Chapter 4 – Turbulence

Sarah was in a tight, sexy black dress. She looked stunning, and John was feeling quite turned on, if a little awkward. This behaviour wasn't really appropriate for work, or 10am.

She began to walk towards his desk, her gait looking odd, far too feline and confidentn for plain Sarah.

"John, come here" her voice sounded a little low and husky, maybe she had a cold?

Then, all of a sudden her dress didn't look quite right. It seemed to grow, the hem brushing the floor and buttons appearing where they shouldn't be.

And _what the hell_ was going on with her cheek bones?

Sarah's hair was changing colour too and the whole room was darkening. John felt very groggy and he found his eyelids were heavy with sleep.

"John," the figure said again. Though it definitely wasn't Sarah this time, the voice was far too rich (Sarah had always been a little chirpy, if he was being honest)

As he sat up in what he now realised was his bed, he focused on the shadowy outline at the footboard.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, "Why aren't you wearing your dress...?"

A low, rippling laughter filled the little room.

"Hurry up; I need you to come downstairs,"

"You need me to sit and listen to you, you mean," John muttered mutinously, stretching.

He rubbed his sleepy eyes and decided this was going to be a very surreal experience. The little glow-in-the-dark alarm clock at the side of his bed flashed '03:15' and the doctor with the sore shoulder and stiff leg just wanted to throw himself back under the covers.

But he could already hear the kettle whistling, and actually a nice hot cup of tea sounded quite appealing, even if conversation with Sherlock didn't.

As he descended the stairs a great rumbling of thunder shook through the apartment, followed shortly by a fork of lightning just outside their window.

"Stormy night," he remarked, plunking himself onto the sofa.

Sherlock brought in the tea on a tray with some biscuits he had skilfully stolen from Mrs Hudson earlier while she was out. _Ha, _he thought, _she really should keep her digestives locked up._

John was a little shocked when, instead of perching on the nearby armchair as he'd come to expect from his aloof flatmate, Sherlock took a seat next to him on the sofa.

They sat in silence, sipping tea for a few minutes, awkwardly brushing thighs from time to time and listening to the rumble of the storm beating against the windows. John cleared his throat.

"So..."

His friend jerked, obviously he'd been away with the fairies, or more likely goblins. Well, whichever degenerate mythical creature Sherlock preferred (for some reason John pictured him with centaurs).

"What?"

"You've realised something, about the case? Yes?"

Sherlock looked annoyed and a bit confused.

"No. Whatever gave you that idea?"

John stood up, and began to pace. He was more than a bit tired and if Sherlock was trying to play mindgames he'd have to find a new victim.

"Then why?" John said, and as the thunder roared from outside, Sherlock twitched, "Did you wake me up at bloody THREE bloody AM in the BLOODY MORNING?"

"A chat," The black-haired detective offered, a little lamely in the doctor's opinion.

He was just about to launch into a rant about respect for your friends when lightning lit the room up like an explosion and he saw the other man flinch. That was when a bolt of realisation hit him.

John's mouth hung open.

"_Sherlock_...are you afraid of storms?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied in his most scathing and condescending voice, crossing his arms across his chest, "Why, are you?"

"No," John laughed, listening to the rather soothing sound of the heavy rhythmic rain beating down on the windows and roof.

But now he looked harder he could see that Sherlock had every muscle in his body tensed, his feet poised for flight and that the veins on his neck were raised.

Neither said anything for a long minute but John stood there with a half smirk, rolling through the possibilities this weakness could have. Aha, at last a one-up on the detective, something he most definitely could use against him.

"I'll go put the kettle on again," he turned to the kitchen but heard Sherlock's voice, soft compared the roaring wind and rain.

"John," and the same doctor turned and looked at his friend with compassion, ready for the long-awaited thanks he was due (thanks for saving his ass countless times, for clearing up the flat every day, thanks for earning money and now for _this_), "Leave the teabag in a little longer this time, you tend to make it weaker than a wet paper bag."

And with that remark, Sherlock Holmes smiled, picked up a book and set his feet on the coffee table, humming quietly to himself to drown out the noise outside.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Dinner and Dirty Dancing (Part 1)

**Uhh hello guys, sorry this is a short one, I'm a little busy today :(**

**Love you all a million billion percent! Oh and junkie-munkie, you're a saint and your review made me smile from the tips of my toes to the top of my head.**

**So without further ado:**

Sherlock was sitting in front of Lestrade's desk at Scotland Yard, listening (with approximately 5% of his brain) to the man babble his thanks about the latest solved case, courtesy of the very same Sherlock Holmes.

It was only when the unexpected words, 'dance' and 'guest' cropped up that Sherlock had to mentally backtrack through what Lestrade had been saying:

_Once again thanks for your __**blah blah blah **__we couldn't have done it without you __**blah blah blah **_Aha! _I'd be very grateful if you'd come to the annual police dance this year. It's nothing fancy, just dinner then some music. Oh and guests with invitations (_Sherlock realised he had a flimsy piece of cardboard in his hand) _can bring a +1, so maybe a lady friend?_

Now there was an awkward silence between the two men as the consulting detective appraised Lestrade, trying to figure out whether this was some kind of joke set up by Anderson and Donovan.

Apparently it wasn't, as the inspector looked to be waiting for some kind of serious response.

Sherlock gave him a hard look, and stood up, "I think not,"

"Wait! Look damnit Sherlock just sit down," Lestrade sounded tired and with a rapid glance Sherlock took in the dark bags under the eyes, the slightly crumpled clothes, the smell of unwashed cotton. Someone was in the dog-house at home, "Clearly if this was _just_ about the dinner and dancing I would never have thought in a million _years_ to invite you,"

"The pain," Sherlock said, miming an arrow through his heart.

The older man sighed, too used to Sherlock's antics to be offended, "But the thing is, I'm not going to be hanging around here forever, I'm looking to move up and on."

"I understand," Sherlock said, stretching his arms and curving his back, "You suspect your potential successor will be there and so you wish me to make my charismatic impression,"

He shot his sort-of-boss a winning smile.

"Well –"

"Anyway the answer is still categorically no,"

"A good meal?"

"There's a perfectly adequate chinese down the road,"

"There'll be free booze," the inspector said desperately.

"...I'll see you Saturday,"

* * *

John was sitting in his favourite comfy armchair, flicking through the Sunday paper, when a clammy sense of dread settled on his skin.

It wasn't the bone-deep terror he felt when one of them was in mortal danger, more a sort of panicked, heady feeling that something was going to happen soon that he was _not_ going to like.

And, right on cue, his tall, striking flatmate burst through door, brandishing a bunch of flowers.

"Cinderella! You _shall_ go to the ball!"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Dinner and Dirty Dancing (Part 2)

**Just so you guys know, I can't believe how nice you all are. I love you to the earth and back. Reviews literally make my day! :D**

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John scowled so hard that his vision was blurred by his eyebrows.

"I. Said. No," he growled and turned his back on the flatmate who had (yet again) invaded his bedroom. He was starting to think they should swap; Sherlock spent far much more time here.

"Look John, you're being childish," the other man said, dancing around the dresser to catch his friend by the wrist.

John unfortunately expressed his outrage at the hypocrisy comment in a series of unintelligible strings of speech ("Uh-I-you-whah-tch-UHH-WELL!") which just made Sherlock raise one eyebrow smugly.

"It's one night and I need a date," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, picking at some fluff on his cuff.

"Yes," John said, exasperated, shaking free of his grip and turning his friend bodily towards the door, "Go, find one. I'm sure there are plenty of girls," Sherlock glared, "or boys who would willingly hang on your arm for one night,"

Sherlock grimaced. He didn't want just _some boy. _

Sherlock dug his heels into the carpet and refused to move. However strong John thought he was, he couldn't shift the weight of his 6" companion.

"It's one night," Sherlock tried again.

He really couldn't imagine why John was being so obstinate; it wasn't like he usually went out at night. In fact, quite often the two of them would watch a film (predictable yet _sometimes_ enjoyable), dissect animals (for a doctor, John had a surprisingly weak stomach, which was amusing) or play chess (John lost. Always. It made Sherlock happy in a very petty way), so why spending time with him at an equally pointless police event was any different, Sherlock didn't know.

As he guided the taller man (who moodily acquiesced) down the stairs, he sighed, deciding to tell Sherlock the truth. He wasn't going to like it though. Despite going through what they had with John's girlfriend, the detective liked her about as much as he did his brother. John thought it harsh, but that was Sherlock for you.

"Any other time. But, this Saturday Sarah got me tickets to this concert..."

Sherlock was suddenly interested. By this time, the two were in the kitchen and the detective shoved some jars off a chair which he realised in the nick of time contained highly flammable substances, and swooped to catch them.

Damn John, always making him careless.

"What concert?" Sherlock said, crossing his legs and trying to look as nonchalant as possible. It was hard; he wanted John with him a lot. Not for support, he told himself sternly. But the function might be slightly less unbearable with some halfway decent conversation.

"Isstakethat," John mumbled so quietly not even a bat could have heard it.

"What?"

He took a deep breath, steeling himself "Take That..."

Sherlock laughed so loud and hard that he thought his stomach might have ruptured. He could suddenly picture the doctor all too clearly surrounded by rabid, screaming Gary Barlow fan-girls...well, middle-aged-fan-women, throwing their undergarments around. It was almost too funny to bear.

Then all of a sudden he was deadly serious, "And that's why you're _ditching_ me,"

John wanted to scream. He really couldn't win with this guy. Sometimes Sherlock would act like he never wanted to see or talk to another human again, the next day he was clingier than a puppy, forgetting the meaning of _personal space_.

Instead of screaming, he patted Sherlock on the arm.

"I'm sorry. Like I said, any other night,"

"Wait! There's one word I want you to hear before you make your final decision,"

"Oh yeah?"

_Damn_, Sherlock thought, he had spoken in rash desperation. He racked his brains for something useful.

Dangerous? That wouldn't work; it was hardly going to be full of interesting murderers, only pricks like Anderson and Donovan and generally nice, but insufferably boring Lestrade-types.

Whipped? He was sure _that_ comment wouldn't be appreciated, however true it was. John was getting far too tied down to this woman. He made a mental note to find out all he could about Sarah, everyone has some secrets.

Booze? John could buy that himself...and plus, he wasn't quite as capable at handling his drink. In fact, there had been that rather amusing night on the town (researching a case, of course) with that large transvestite who John took a shine to after seven tequilas and Sherlock also vaguely remembered several confessions of love, lust and marriage proposals.

It was likely the doctor had no recollections of those events as Sherlock had found him outside the following morning at 6 am, still completely plastered, explaining the complexities of life, the universe and everything (and repeating '42!') to a small ginger tabby, while it scratched his hand and tried to get away from him. Then he'd passed out for 28 hours.

Suddenly, it came to Sherlock, like a miracle. And he hardly _ever_ said it, which is why it hadn't occurred before.

"_Please,_" Sherlock said, standing up and looking straight into John's eyes, "Please."

The doctor sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. Sherlock's heart faltered, he really had expected that to work. A crushing sense of disappointment settled on his chest, surprising him.

Then, after what seemed like forever:

"You're refunding her bloody ticket!"

The detective allowed a smug smile and congratulated himself inwardly on his acting skills.

**By the way I have nothing against Take That! :D x**


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Dinner and Dirty Dancing (Part 3)

**Gah! I'm sorry I haven't replied to your reviews :( I'll hop on it I promise because you don't realise how much I appreciate them! Pleeeeeaaaasse PLEASE still review.**

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Sherlock Holmes was flustered. It would have been quite cute and amusing if he hadn't been nagging fussing with John for the best part of an hour.

"Anything to get your hands on me," John muttered as his bow-tie was undone and tied again for about the 50th time.

Surprisingly there was no taunt and Sherlock simply glared at him, checking the two of them both, up and down, once more.

"Acceptable," he finally said, pulling on his black coat and scarf and texting on his preciously guarded phone, "Let's go,"

As the two stepped out the front door, John noticed the black taxi was already at their front door.

"That was quick, what did you do? Bribe them or something?" he asked, impressed.

"No" Sherlock said, looking at his friend as if he were an idiot, "It's been waiting for an hour,"

John had absolutely no time to be livid as he was shoved incautiously into the waiting car.

"Oh and by the way," Sherlock peeped over the top of his Blackberry which he was furiously texting away on, again, "Did you bring some money? I forgot my wallet,"

Happy place, happy place, happy place, the doctor chanted, waiting for the anger to clear.

In the 6 minutes it took for the taxi to arrive at the Hilton, about a mile away, John was if anything, angrier.

The £100 fare did nothing to improve his mood.

As the beautiful and snooty concierge escorted them to the conference suite, John tussled discreetly with Sherlock.

"Give me your phone," he hissed.

"No" Sherlock replied. Loudly, "Why?"

"I'm confiscating it til you pay me back. Punishment,"

"I refuse,"

"Look just-"

And it was in this vein that the pair managed to enter the packed room with John grasping tightly at his friend's hand, the hand he assumed the phone to be in.

There was a distinct ripple of giggles and titters and severl "Ooh!"s. John felt heat rushing to his cheeks and dropped the offending limb as if it were toxic.

Meanwhile his cocky counterpart simply sauntered towards Lestrade's lot, gesturing dismissively for John to follow him.

When a waitress passed with a tray of champagne flutes, John took two. He needed a drink. Badly.

"Ooh, careful there John," Sherlock laughed, as the two joined the conversation with the inspector, "Don't want a repetition of the last time you got plastered, found you in a skip"

Lestrade and his group chuckled. John ground his teeth. When they got home he was going to find that damned skull, smash it with a hammer, grind it into a paste and spread it on the consulting detective's toast.

Keeping his thoughts of revenge to himself, John smiled. Well, grimaced.

"You made it!" Lestrade said cheerfully, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

Instead of shaking him off as he usually would, Sherlock smiled and launched into some of the most spectacular small talk.

John was flabbergasted. Not once in ten minutes had Sherlock insulted someone's mother, deduced that they were on cocaine, complimented them on their taste in revolting ties which made them look obes or in any way made the conversation awkward.

John made a mental note to watch out for this sociopathic man, he was much more dangerous when desperate.

Even Lestrade looked slightly awed, and shot his consulting detective worried looks every so often.

When Sherlock took a toilet break, the Inspector pulled John back.

"Have you slipped him something?" he whispered, grinning.

"I wish. Who's he trying to impress?"

"Well, whoever takes my job I guess. Hate to say it, but it's working. Someone's going to get a real nasty surprise when they find out what he's actually like,"

"What _who's_ really like," said Sherlock, flashing John a hard stare, then looking back to the group of policemen in suits, "And Lestrade, you really shouldn't let McGilligan work for you, he's dealing drugs,"

While saying this he flashed the offending officer a winning smile.

Lestrade sighed, far too used to Sherlock making crazy deductions to be scandalised.

As they re-entered the mingling fray, John plastered on a fake smile. It was easy to be mad at his friend, but by now he had become accustomed to his ways, and knew, _very_ deep down that Sherlock didn't mean to be a condescending prick. Even though he hardly ever showed it, John knew Sherlock cared about him.

However it was hard to remember this as he became the butt of 80% of Sherlock's well-timed jokes highlighting his many failures. He bore all these with surprisingly good grace, while mentally cataloguing all the horrible things he was going to do to Sherlock's phone, laptop, skull, person.

It went one step too far when the detective found it necessary to tell a group of absolute strangers about the time John had mistakenly used one of Sherlock's chemical bottles instead of shower gel and obtained a very nasty and embarrassing rash.

Immediate revenge became a very promising and appealing idea.

It was then that the Inspector's words drifted back to him and John remembered that he had a little pill in his pocket that, while very legal, would not mix well with alcohol. Then perhaps even the self-proclaimed heavyweight drinker would become more than a little bit tipsy.

John chuckled quietly and pointedly ignored the questioning eyes of his soon-to-be-victim.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Dinner and Dirty Dancing (Part 4) - **Finally the end of this arc!**

**Hey you guys, sorry this chapter was a little later than the others, sorry if it's crap, sorry I haven't replied to comments and just sorry! I'm all full of apologies. **

**Please read and review - especially if it needs constructive criticism.**

**Btw I don't know if links work but I SO want this T-Shirt:**

.

**Love you lot! xxxxxxx**

John attempted to remember some advice he was once given by an illusionist. Well, a man with a few cheap tricks, although he _insisted _they be called illusions. Hookers did tricks apparently. Anyway, the key to sleight of hand was distraction.

And Watson tried desperately to keep this in mind as it would take nothing short of magic to distract the great Sherlock Holmes long enough to slip something in his drink and have it dissolved.

_Not illegal_, John told himself, _not illegal._

With his resolve slipping, he decided to act quickly. He reasoned that later he would quite possibly regret this, but found he didn't care.

In one swift shove, he knocked his sore shoulder into his taller companion. Usually, this wouldn't have budged him, but Sherlock was taken off-guard and lurched forward, spilling his drink all over the generous bust of a chief inspector's wife.

While Sherlock was haphazardly mopping the squealing woman (worth it already, John thought) the doctor took his empty glass, grabbed a full one, dropped the white capsule and swirled a few times.

By the time he turned round, John had the new drink held out. Sherlock smiled, taking it and John grinned back, a little too eagerly.

Sherlock was a little suspicious but quickly attributed John's jumpiness to the fact he'd just nearly knocked him over. Sherlock took a long drag from the flute and smiled. It was nice being able to drink without worrying about the side effects.

A woman, the one who had led them to the suite, stood now on the stage and announced that dinner was to be served very shortly.

John smiled at Sherlock and walked over to the place with his name card. Well: _Seat reserved for the guest of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. _

Mr. Sherlock Holmes walked over, feeling a little light-headed. He shook himself. The feeling was rare and he pondered it briefly. He hadn't had that much to drink. Lack of sleep, he thought.

Once the guests were all seated at the table, around 150, John guessed, the Chief of Police stood up and held a glass aloft.

Sherlock found he was thirsty and downed his drink earning him a worried look from John. _Ha, _he thought tipsily, _it isn't me who needs to watch their drink._

The chief, a nice but serious man, balding and fleshy around the middle, named George King made his speech, giving special thanks to the number of homicides Lestrade's department (referring to, but without specifically naming Sherlock)

Then the meal was served, the starter being shrimp surprise. Basically it was bog-standard prawn cocktail but with big, full bodied shrimps hanging over the top and a more intricate sauce. John snorted inwardly; this posh lot tried it on.

Sherlock was really starting to feel the effect of the alcohol now, his head seeming as if it were floating a few feet above his shoulders.

The shrimp were instantly the most interesting thing in the world. Sherlock examined in minute detail their every pink joint, their beady black eyes and long, spiky whiskers.

John became worried. His friend was sat with his head practically in his starter and people were beginning to stare.

"Umm Sherlock," John said over the general babble.

Sherlock threw his head up in delight and revealed his fingers, which had shrimp heads on the end.

"Look John, shrimp theatre!" Sherlock put on a disturbingly accurate falsetto voice, "That which we call a decapod crustacean by any other name would smell as sweet,"

The genius detective made the two dead heads smooch, complete with wet kissing noises.

A clear, pretty laugh floated from across the table and John peeped over the centrepiece (a bowl of petunias) to see a young, very skinny blonde woman snorting into her starter.

She had her eyes fixed on Sherlock and was giggling profusely as he continued to act out the bard's works in shrimp-form.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?" the mystery girl asked. She wasn't pretty. In fact, her features were very sharp and she looked a little ratty. But she was good enough with make-up to cover it well and bring out her dazzlingly blue eyes.

Without looking up Sherlock said, "My mother was a cold-hearted woman who avoided talking to me unless it was absolutely necessary."

Instead of being awkwardly put off, this woman laughed again.

"Nice. So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes then?"

"So it would seem. You're related to Anderson,"

The woman blushed, "Yeah. Cousins,"

John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew this. He then pointedly ignored the woman and continued to mess with the next two courses rather amusingly. In fact, he attracted the attention of the surrounding eaters again when he constructed an ice cream tower and made a handlebar moustache out of spaghetti.

The strangest thing of all that Sherlock was being _pleasant_. He kept patting John on the arm and laughing at the doctor's jokes and being an all-round nice guy.

It was odd.

And all through it he ignored cousin Anderson until halfway through pudding, she said:

"I hate him you know,"

"Good," Sherlock said as if they'd been having a normal conversation, "His enemy's my friend,"

Then they clinked glasses.

With the plates cleared away, couples began to hit the dance floor and as the alcohol were really flowing now, there were more raucous laughs and red-faced men and Sherlock Holmes look set to be one of them.

John got up from his seat but Sherlock tugged on his hand.

"Hey-hey John," Oh dear, thought John, _he's reached the slurring stage,_ "I'm not Fred Flinstone,"

John was very confused.

"I never really thought you were to be honest Sherlock,"

Sherlock stood up, looking pissed off.

"Damn, I forgot the end bit,"

As the two walked across the room to some seats at the side, Sherlock brightened,

"Oh! I'm not Fred Flinstone...but I can make your bed rock!"

John stopped dead. He needed an ear test.

"What?"

"Hey, hey, hey John!"

A nasty feeling of suspicion was creeping across John's skin now.

"Yes..." he said warily.

"You have a beautiful body! Hold it against me!"

"I don't think that's how the line's meant to go," John said, face reddening.

Sherlock was laughing manically and slinging his arms around John's neck, swaying to the rhythm of some unidentifiably dreary track. John attempted to get out, but it was nearly impossible. His captor was strong

Sherlock groaned in annoyance and John, still trying to untangle himself from the detective's grasp, heard a familiar voice chuckle meanly behind him.

"Alright gayboys?" came Anderson's strained and irritating voice, "Enjoying your new profession as a crafty butcher, Watson?"

"Crafty butcher?"

"Getting your meat delivered round the back," sniggered Anderson.

"Subtle," muttered John.

Sherlock released the doctor and turned to look Anderson and his very plain wife up and down once.

"He's cheating on you with Donavon, you're cheating on him with his brother and you're pregnant," Sherlock said in a monotone, and then turned to John, "Want to dance?"

John didn't at all. But he did want to get away from the now irate couple who looked just about ready to murder the sociopath.

Sherlock took John's hand and dragged him to the centre of the dance floor where he began to gyrate and sway. It took everything in John's power not to run away from the highly embarrassing sight.

Instead he decided it was about time to go home. Lestrade wandered over and told Sherlock, while avoiding looking at his grinding hips, that he'd definitely made an impression and could probably leave.

"Lestrade you're boring! Isn't he boring John," Another crazy laugh.

"Maybe you should go _now_," Lestrade wiped his forehead and looking anxiously towards the Chief of Police who was talking to a red-faced Anderson.

It wasn't a question. John escorted the whining Sherlock out of the room and towards the taxi rank.

"John let's walk home! Let's steal a shopping trolley and go clubbing. Let's buy a pet snake. I could cut it up!" Cue crazy laugh.

John sighed and supported the man who was now walking in very wonky lines, against his shoulder.

Sherlock stopped and yanked John painfully backwards.

"What now?"

"Thank you for coming tonight,"

And with that, Sherlock pulled John into a bone-crushing hug. John tensed but there was no sign of his friend letting go anytime soon so he relaxed and patted Sherlock awkwardly on the back.

In the taxi Sherlock stretched his body out, rested his head in John's lap and fell asleep.

The doctor groaned and attempted to position Sherlock upright but it was like moving around a two ton doll. Every time he thought his friend would stay upright, something would slip and he'd fall back onto John, knocking the air out of him.

By the time they reached Baker Street John was ready to throttle Sherlock if it woke him up, but the detective was suddenly bolt upright and paying the driver.

Slowly, and with lots of falling over the two made it up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock was alternating between making lots of noise and putting his hand on John's mouth and giggling 'shhh!' very loudly.

When they were finally inside, something clicked in John's brain.

"Hey! You had money!"

Sherlock smirked and tottered off towards his bed.

"Yes..and you drugged my drink. Good night Mr. High and Mighty"

John groaned. The next morning would be hell.

**So what did you think? Sorry if it sucked :( I love you lot!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Surprise

**Hello you beautiful lot! If you're reading this guess what? You're an amazing person ;)**

**Basically this is just a little warning: This chapter is not as sweet and funny! In fact it is slightly more angsty...until like the end or whatever. But too much fluff rots your teeth anyway! Also SWEARING :O So cover your ears little ones!**

**Also, I'm thinking of working on a Sherlock/Final Destination type crossover with Lestrade, Anderson, Donavon, John and Sherlock. What do you guys think? It will be John/Sherlock slash. Should be fun. Would mean this might be on the shelf for a little bit but hey, ho. **

**Thankyou junkie you make me so happy, and give me motivation! Go you! xxxx**

**Oops I didn't realise links don't work...makes me look like an idiot. The t-shirt basically had a dinosaur in Sherlock Holmes gear on it.**

**But blargh, I go on too much. Enjoy:**

He'd just got comfy. Nestled in a cocoon of cushions and blankets, John had a cup of tea and a good book. Sherlock was out on some new case (and the doctor was only a little stung he hadn't been invited along). It looked set to be a peaceful morning.

Halfway through the book, his bladder became annoyingly persistent. Grudgingly he excavated his way out of the comfy, warm den he'd created and stumbled to the loo.

A minute later he returned to the living room, shivering, anxious to jump back into his nest. Something was different though. John couldn't pinpoint it but the room looked altered.

He swept his gaze across the messy room three times but it still evaded him. He _knew_ he was missing something and wished his observant flatmate would come home.

The air was colder and a great shudder rippled down John's spine. He wrapped his arms around himself trying to curb the irrational urge to call Sherlock. A cold breeze blasted through the house and John realised the window was open.

Without a hint of warning there was a strong hand around his neck, grasping and squeezing his throat and a cloth was being pressed against his face.

Instinctively he breathed in; choking slightly and instantly became limp and tired. _Chloroform_ he thought groggily before sinking into darkness.

* * *

It was cold. Cigarette smoke wafted into John's nose and he coughed. There were ropes tying his hands behind his back and a blindfold wound tightly round his eyes.

Fear cleared his head, "Where are you taking me?"

A deep voice he didn't recognise spoke with a thick cockney accent, "'Fraid I can't tell you that guvnor. There soon tho',"

Despite being in this situation before, twice actually in the _last two months_, his hands were shaking and he was immediately annoyed with himself. This is what he'd been trained against. Stay calm. They can smell fear.

Around about twenty minutes later the car stopped and John was roughly jerked out.

"You do know Sherlock Holmes will find me. He will hunt you down," John said this with far more confidence than he was feeling. He knew that Sherlock cared for him on some level, after all he put up with what must seem like an incredibly dumb person and he asked John's opinion frequently, but John still couldn't bring himself to think he meant that much to Sherlock.

"'E won't have far to look, seeing wot he's already there like,"

"_No,_" John whispered.

His heart sunk to the bottom of his stomach and he felt like he was going to be sick. No. Not Sherlock. That must be a lie, it must be. They couldn't have caught Sherlock, whoever they are, he's too clever.

He couldn't speak, he couldn't think and he was finding it difficult to breathe properly. A steel band had trapped his chest and it kept tightening. Sharp pains in his shoulder and leg made it difficult to walk. Now his hands were really shaking, and his shoulders jerked up and down with what he realised were cold shivers.

He was being guided down what he thought was a hallway. It was long and straight, at least. He was stopped and could hear a babble of noise coming from what he assumed to be a door. Strange, that must be a lot of people, maybe they were going to torture him, he thought without much feeling, then a stab of pain in the stomach, _or Sherlock._

The doors were opened and the noise intensified and these _sick people_ sounded happy and excited. John wanted to vomit. He could hear his and Sherlock's names being whispered. He wanted to lash out and kick and punch and tear until he reached his friend.

That gave him an idea. If he could take down one of them then perhaps that would give him enough of a diversion to grab Sherlock and run.

Slim fingers untied the rough ropes around his hands and without thinking twice he swung his fist as hard as he could into the person's stomach. John was about to deliver a second crippling blow, this time to the balls, but the captor's grunt made him stop.

John knew that "oomph". He'd heard it before. Fingers clumsy with haste he ripped off the blindfold and froze in disbelief.

"_Sherlock?" _

His voice was croaky and low from the chloroform and John rubbed his wrists, suddenly unable to look at his flatmate who was doubled over in pain.

"Surprise," Sherlock grunted, standing up.

John's muscles unfroze but his brain still couldn't process the scene.

"What the BLOODY HELL are you PLAYING AT?" John rushed forward, fists clenched but still shaking, "I thought they HAD you! I thought, I thought,"

John realised he was sobbing but couldn't control his shaking body. Sherlock looked awkwardly around and it was only then that John took in his surroundings and noticed the other people in his room.

And immediately felt terrible.

Lestrade stood with a couple of the other police guys John knew and liked including Anderson's cousin (whose name he still couldn't remember) and they were all awkwardly looking in different directions, keeping their gaze averted.

Then a bit further on, underneath the big HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner stood Sarah looking shocked and upset, and indecisive. She wanted to go to John but didn't want to embarrass him. Standing next to her was...his sister Harry with a bottle of champagne ready to be popped.

John groaned.

She looked healthy, if confused and annoyed. Her hair was shorter and feathered and an interesting combination of bubblegum pink and turquoise and there was a new tattoo on her arm. Oh, more than a tattoo. Clara hung on to her looking anxiously at John. Back together again, he noted.

John rubbed his eyes and turned to stare despairingly at Sherlock who looked more awkward than the rest of them put together.

"We'll just be in minute," Sherlock muttered to the random assembly.

Then he took John by the shoulder and walked him back out into the corridor. As soon as the door shut, John shook Sherlock off violently.

"I'm –" Sherlock began but John's shame had evolved into anger.

"You made me look like a fucking idiot!" He yelled.

Sherlock looked at the carpet, unable for the first time since the two had met to meet his eyes.

"I know," his voice was low, dejected, "I'm sorry,"

John breathed in and out deeply, saying nothing. He didn't know what to ask first.

"Why?"

Sherlock glanced up and his eyes were glassy, "I thought surprise birthday parties were a social convention..."

John was exasperated. When had Sherlock done anything conventional? If these were the results then perhaps he shouldn't try again.

"And you thought that fucking _drugging _and _kidnapping_ me was the way to go about that? Forgive me Sherlock, when that happened the first thing that came to mind WASN'T _oh right this is just his way of saying happy fucking birthday_!"

It was really something to see mild-mannered John Watson this angry and it brought up feelings of shame and guilt in Sherlock that he hadn't had in years. An uncomfortable lump was growing in his throat.

"They were Mycroft's men...I didn't realise...I didn't know how to go about this. I just thought they'd be subtle, I never thought..."

John laughed hollowly.

" You didn't think much did you? And oh yeah, Mycroft's known for his hospitality," he sighed deeply, "Forgive me Sherlock if the novelty and excitement of being kidnapped's worn off a bit,"

Sherlock nodded, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking.

The doctor touched the tall man gently. All his anger was seeping out at the sight of his usually carefree and unfeeling friend racked with guilt.

"I know you meant well, but maybe leave this sort of thing to Mrs Hudson next time. Actually where is she? And where are we?"

"A concert hall in Kent," Sherlock murmured, "Mrs Hudson had a doctor's appointment but she can't wait til you get back. I was going to invite your parents, but your sister seemed to think that wasn't such a great idea,"

"For once, she's right. Speaking of Harry, we should probably go back in. This is going to be awkward"

Sherlock smiled and squeezed his friend's hand in a gesture of affection which made John light up inside.

* * *

Surprisingly, the party was enjoyable. Once the tension of '_John made a scene, let's ignore it' _was over, the alcohol flowed (though Harry was on orange juice which made John happy), John received some nice presents (though nothing from his flatmate) and toasts and Sherlock was extra civil to everyone to make up for his mistake.

The detective actually found he rather liked John's sister. She was honest, cheeky, eccentric and lively and didn't react in the way normal, stupid, obvious people. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said of her partner but Sherlock thought it was a compromise. If he got on with everyone, how could he be a sociopath?

When the two got home, Mrs Hudson was waiting with a boiled kettle, some biscuits, and a new cane for John. He smiled politely and thanked her but Sherlock could tell John didn't like the gift. It was a reminder of something he'd like to forget.

The three of them shared news and John lied bare-facedly saying the party had been a lovely, unexpected surprise.

Mrs Hudson yawned around nine o' clock and Sherlock used this as an excuse to shepherd her out of their apartment with thanks and promises of the rent soon.

John stretched his aching limbs. It had been a long day.

"I think I might go to bed too," He said rising, "Work tomorrow,"

Sherlock was rocking on his heels and clearly had something to say.

"What?"

From his pocket Sherlock produced a small slip of paper, placed it gingerly on the coffee table then rushed off to his room, claiming exhaustion.

John took the paper. Then he laughed happily. Sherlock was such a child in some ways.

_I, Sherlock Holmes, owe the holder of this slip 1 cooked meal._

Very cute, John thought and went to bed, without any intention of ever cashing in this cheque.

**So what did you think? Reviews are love, and life and energy!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 - Twitchy

**Bonjour mes amis! :) Sorry it's a shorty!**

**In little over a week I'll be back at school so the writing will probably slow down, therefore I'm trying to rattle off as many chapters as I can before I have to return to Hell and doom (I kid, school's OK really)**

**But hey if you want me to write more then REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW :D**

**Love you as usual my precious, sweet reviewers! (readers, you can skip this if you wish!)**

**mojojojo- Thanks :D No, Sherlock is still so naive in some ways. And it's my job as your faithful author to exploit that!**

**junkie - It was SO cringeworthy to write! Seriously, I considered cutting it I felt so bad :L But Sherlock _meant_ well. Thanks for your brilliant review x**

**HADES - Thanks :D it's like, the best feeling ever to know you make people happy, make 'em laugh. Keep reviewing! x**

**Enjoy:**

It happened again. And again. And _in the name of all that's deduced_ Sherlock was going to throttle the nearest person if it happened again. For three minutes he was given peace. Then it did it again.

Pinching his flickering eyelid in pure, irrational annoyance Sherlock yelled loudly, "DOCTOR! Come here!"

John Watson sighed and shifted his weight. His poorly leg was always a bit stiff.

"Sherlock what are you banging on about? And don't shout, I'm sat six feet away,"

This was true but instead of answering, Sherlock flew across the room and dumped himself heavily next to John.

He pointed angrily to his eyelid, which twitched again and the detective groaned.

"What is _this?_" he whined.

"It's a twitch," John said, before going back to his newspaper.

It became hard to concentrate on the news story when he found Sherlock peeping over the top of the broadsheet. Then it was nigh on impossible, when his flatmate began covering paragraphs with his hands. _So childish. _

John closed the paper and gave Sherlock a hard look.

"What?"

"What causes it?" Sherlock asked, seeming genuinely perplexed, though the effect was humorously ruined by his eyelid doing another twitch.

"Stress," Sherlock snorted at this and shook his head, "Exhaustion," John tried, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Caffeine?" At this, Sherlock looked scandalised.

"I don't do drugs,"

Now it was John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"...Anymore," Sherlock amended, "Well John that was thoroughly disappointing. The internet told me more in far less time. You're a terrible doctor,"

Even though he knew Sherlock was winding him up, John flinched.

Irked, he retorted, "Well then you probably have some form of cataract in it's early stages, maybe retina damage,"

The look of shock and horror on his friend's face was momentarily amusing, then hilarious.

John chuckled, "Kidding!"

Sherlock frowned so hard, his forehead was all wrinkled.

He hissed in John's face, "Half of my work is performed with my eyes _Dr. Watson _and it would not be a _joke_ if something happened to them,"

The annoyance was real and despite finding it frankly ridiculous, John was a eensy, tiny bit ashamed.

"Sorry," he murmured.

Instead of answering, the gangly man turned around and pointedly ignored John for the rest of the evening.

* * *

John tried to wiggle his toes. Useless. They were completely dead, as was his entire lower body. He sighed.

"Sherlock, if you're going to sulk could you not do it on top of me?"

The dark-haired man simply smirked and wiggled his torso, arching his back away from the doctor whilst still remaining basically sat on his lap.

It was a quite pleasant night in, mused the detective.

**So what did you think guys? If you've made it this far, please take another ten seconds to leave a review even if it's "CRAP!" :) LOVE YOU LOT LIKE JELLY TOTS **

x o x o x o x o


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 - Theatre

**Brilliant response to the last chapter, thank you all so much, you make me feel so happy :D Fics like these take over your lives a little bit, I'm _always_ trying to think of new chapters :L I like this little idea.**

**If you liked it please review, if you hated it please review, if you were indifferent to it please review. Are you sensing a pattern?**

**Again sorry it's short! Love! x o x o**

John plonked himself down on the sofa with a sigh, taking off his suit jacket and wearily undoing his tie. He should have _known_ it was a mistake taking Sherlock to the theatre.

But it all seemed so sensible at the time. He'd won four free tickets in a newspaper crossword draw and it looked to be a fun Friday night out.

John had invited Sarah and told Sherlock that he could bring whoever he wanted, presuming it was going to be Mrs Hudson, or maybe a hobo. But John had been more than a little surprised when his big sister turned up hanging the arm of his smug looking friend.

Something was obviously going right in her life because despite the crazy hair and tattoos she'd looked absolutely beautiful. Radiant.

The four of them had walked to their box, but not before Sherlock demanded he have popcorn. When John told him very solemnly that they didn't serve popcorn at the theatre he'd thrown a hissy fit, complaining non-stop until John relented, nipping to the nearby Tesco Express.

When he had returned a large member of the theatre staff was determined that John should not get back in as the play had already started but after a minute of pleading and lies (John said his very elderly mother would be confused if he didn't return) the man relented.

Sherlock and Harry had then rustled and chewed noisily through the first five minutes. After another five minutes John realised why there'd been an uneasy feeling in his stomach all morning. He remembered it was a murder mystery drama.

Unable to say anything, or warn the his notoriously inappropriate friend that this was a polite social event, he watched in silent horror as twenty minutes in, Sherlock shouted loudly.

But it wasn't just a heckle. Oh no. Sherlock solved the 'case' with an inflated sense of superiority. He also commented (_that's putting it politely_, thought John) on their acting skills, insulted one or two mothers and identified alcoholic/abusive/gay fathers of the actors and told the male lead to stop doing heroine. He would have gone further but as he had the attention of the whole theatre, the cast and especially Harry who was giggling wildly, he also had the attention of the theatre attendants who escorted him (and John who'd been physically trying to stop Sherlock) out of the building.

And so it was that Sherlock and John ended up back in Baker Street while Sarah and Harry watched the rest of the play, though John imagined that it was a little flat, what with the air of mystery rudely taken away.

He was pondering the events of the evening when Sherlock walked in, with hands behind his back.

"You behaved really badly Sherlock!"

"I'm not a puppy John," Sherlock said, sitting next to him on the sofa, "Though I did fetch you something,"

He handed John the half-full bag of sweet popcorn. Despite his annoyance John smiled a small smile and flicked the telly on. It wasn't Sherlock's fault he didn't get society. And it had been pretty hilarious.

"Want to watch Murder She Wrote? Fiver if you guess the murderer before the first ad break,"

Sherlock panted and licked John's face.

"Eurgh _Sherlock_! That's unhygienic! Enough with the puppy thing, it's weird," John paused and looked at Sherlock who was now attempted big puppy eyes. He needed to cut down on his sugar content, "But I'll take it as a yes,"

They spent the rest of the night watching various TV shows, placing bets against each other and discussing how terrible the play was anyway.

**Did you guys like puppy!Sherlock? He's super cute. ;) :L **


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 – Posture

**Apologies for Sherlock being a bit OOC in the last chapter. I realised it once I read it back and was like dayuuumn it's sure cute but it ain't him. Sometimes the part of me that just wants a cuddly Sherlock toy comes out to play :/ But that is a disgrace to the name of Holmes and should be culled and WOW I am truly babbling now. Ignore. Please. **

**Also check out my new fic; Final Destination 221b Baker Street. **

**Many thanks and love! You are brilliant. Hopefully a more in character, sane, not author-tampored-with Sherlock.**

**x o x o x o x o x - hugs and kisses for you dear reader!**

John was having a bad day. It didn't help that Sherlock was between cases and therefore being extra irritating, suffering massive mood swings.

Plus, he needed his cane today for the first time in three months. His leg had been getting progressively worse since there'd been no new cases to occupy himself and his flatmate. He corrected himself, no cases Sherlock deemed interesting enough.

It was all in his head, the pain. John knew that there was nothing physically wrong. By God he'd heard the words psycho-somatic so many times he wanted to scream every time someone mentioned them. But the more he told himself it shouldn't hurt, the worse it did. So he ignored it.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa wearing only jogging bottoms (John's actually), glaring mutinously at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. He was muttering as well, quietly but angrily. John shook his head. _Madman, _he thought.

"Sherlock," John needed him out of the house; it was clear he was going stir crazy, which added to his usual brand of crazy would be unbearable, "Why don't you come with me to work today?"

John turned into the kitchen to put some toast on, so he missed the murderous stare Sherlock shot into his back.

"I could. Or of course I could simply shoot myself instead," the detective drawled, "Both amount to the same thing: death by boredom!"

John sighed and pushed a shrink-wrapped brain out of the way, reaching for the butter then thinking better of it, seeing odd brown moulds growing on the side.

"Don't shout at me," John said tiredly, "It was just a suggestion,"

Doing an emotional U-turn Sherlock leapt off the sofa, pranced over and went to sit on a chair next to John at the table. He started flicking stray pieces of cereal towards John. One landed in his ear.

"Let's go body hunting. We might find a murderer," his voice was almost sing-song.

John pushed the unbuttered burnt toast aside, giving Sherlock a despairing look.

"Normal people don't just run off on a dangerous whimsy," he put on his brown jacket and picked up his cane, "Normal people have work,"

"Normal, stupid, boring; call it what you will, it holds no appeal for me," Sherlock said moodily.

John was halfway out the door when his detective friend caught up with him. He was shocked then momentarily horrified.

"I didn't really mean it about work you know," he garbled. He could only imagine the chaos and destruction Sherlock could create in the pleasantly mundane and monotonously organised clinic. Nurses screaming. Children crying. Old women having heart attacks. Missing drugs. It would be carnage.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat, "I'm fully aware of that. I'm going out,"

"You haven't got a shirt on! And you're wearing track pants...hey those are mine!" John said, face reddening.

The tall man buttoned up his coat in reply, smirking. Truthfully, it was scratchy and irritated his bare skin and the track pants felt foreign. Though to return and change would be to admit defeat. So he suffered in silence and instead chose to change subject.

"Mrs Hudson hasn't ironed my trousers yet," Sherlock glared at the cane then up at John, "You shouldn't walk so stoopy,"

"Stoopy? Sorry Sherlock, but that's not a word," said John, but straightening his spine all the same.

"Stooped, crouched, slouched, bowed, _whatever_. It doesn't _matter_. The point is that in 20 years I will look positively _agile_ when I walk along with what appears to be an old man with a hunch,"

John laughed, "You assume I'll still be hanging around with you then?"

Instead of blushing like any normal, humble, self-aware person the sociopath simply smiled at John, "Of course, where else would you be?"

And though John pictured a thousand different scenarios including him as a grandfather to little descendants of him and Sarah, a life of danger and intrigue and madness with Sherlock Holmes was so much more appealing. The mood swings just kept it fresh.

**Hey, look at that review button. It's looking pretty sexy isn't it? Wow, it's promiscuous too. Can you hear, it's just screaming CLICK ME. CLICK ME. The slut. You should do it thought. Go on, you know you want to. **


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 – Chow Time

**Hello! Guess what? Over 100 reviews. I'm so SO happy. You lot are **_**absolutely excruciatingly **_**BRILLIANT XD This is my first properly successful fic and that immediately makes you ALL the best things, I mean people, EVAH.**

**Mangarific, words fail to describe how happy your reviews made me!**

**HADES, haha sorry I went a little crazy and thought well hey! Now maybe everyone will want to review. Looking back it's kinda creepy. Thanks :D**

**Nath, They would be so adorable as oldies hanging aboot together am I right? (: Good times. Loove x**

**Hope you like this chapter, it was produced at silly o'clock in the morning but is quite good fun (: **

**More love than you know! x o x o x o x o x**

Sherlock was experimenting with food. More specifically, he was experimenting with making himself some lunch.

This sounded like an astonishingly simple task for an adult man; however he had somehow managed to go practically all of his life without accomplishing this.

What else were servants, housekeepers (even ones who protested they weren't housekeepers), sandwich bars (right next door, actually) and flatmates for?

Scouring the cupboards he realised with a pang of irritation that actually John had been right about getting the shopping soon. It was very hard to see anything that might pass as edible food.

Pickled egg and mustard? No. Anchovies and old mayonnaise? Sherlock grimaced. He was all for ignoring social conventions but food poisoning didn't sound like a fun alternative either.

After yet more fruitless scrabbling and when the detective was actually considering going to Mrs Hudson and begging her for food/money, he finally struck gold.

At the back of an old and dusty cupboard was a little jam jar half-filled with something that definitely looked like jam...but had no label. And, oh joy! A tin of baked beans.

Sherlock smirked, thinking back to earlier this morning when John had made a jibe about him not being able to look after himself. He knew he'd prove him wrong. This'd really show him.

Conveniently forgetting his earlier desperation he plotted how he would gloat about his feast to the haughty doctor.

Now Sherlock had never prepared beans before so this was going to be a bit of a struggle. Plus, the tin was so old any instructions that might have been on them once upon a time had rubbed off.

Shrugging, Sherlock began to stab the metal lid with a knife without caution, whistling to himself.

Once he was satisfied with his efforts he tried tipping the tin upside-down into a bowl.

A red, tomato-scented liquid dripped out of the puncture marks agonisingly slowly.

Sherlock frowned and searched through his database, asking himself questions to jog his memory.

How big were baked beans? He didn't know. No picture on the tin to help.

Why weren't they coming out of these holes? Presumably the holes were too small, he deduced.

Did his hunger outweigh his laziness? Surprisingly, yes. His stomach growled impatiently to emphasize this point.

When was John coming home? Hopefully soon, he thought woefully.

Sighing, he cut the whole lid off which took quite a lot of panting and grunting and groaning as the knife was old and blunt.

Sherlock was positive that any passersby would hear the sounds and get the wrong idea. He was glad John wasn't here; those rumours had gone on long enough and people did insist on _talking_ so about the two of them.

Success! With a feeling tantamount to glee Sherlock poured the contents of the can (beans included this time) into the bowl.

It was like the first time he beat Mycroft at chess; absolutely glorious.

Just as he was bringing the first mouthful to his lips, a haggard-looking John walked in.

He stopped in the kitchen, looked from the open cupboard doors to the beans to the rusty knife to the jam to Sherlock and then back to the beans.

He sighed.

"You could have ordered take away you know?" John said, settling himself on the seat next to Sherlock.

The detective looked mortally offended, "And pass up this veritable banquet? I think not Doctor Watson! No, definitely not."

"And of course the fact I took my wallet to work today had nothing to do with it," John added candidly, "You know I thought you were filthy rich when I met you, why do you never pay for things?"

Sherlock just smirked at John, eating another mouthful of beans.

John gave up trying to get an answer and went to put the kettle on. He looked at the stove expecting to find it messy when he remembered that it was in fact broken.

Last week Sherlock had attempted to roast marshmallows, after watching a kid's TV program where they had a campout. Unluckily he tried to use the hob and just made a sticky, burning and eventually flaming mess.

With the help of the fire extinguisher, John had averted disaster but he was still anxious about leaving Sherlock up to his own devices.

The same incompetent man was chomping noisily and that brought John back to the current situation.

If the stove was broken then...

"Eurgh! You're eating cold baked beans," the doctor sounded genuinely repulsed.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"It's temperature John, not a matter of life and death,"

"Still, that's disgusting," he replied, returning to the table and staring intently as Sherlock continued to eat the, in John's opinion, raw beans.

"You, my friend, are too bound by the limits of society; you must open your tastebud's horizons!" Sherlock said, waving his arms about with far too much vigour to be safe.

John opened his mouth to protest but before he could say a word, Sherlock had aimed a spoon laden with the cold baked beans _and_, John's eyes widened in horror, _a scoop of the jam _into his mouth_._

Sherlock practically sang, "Here comes the choo-choo train,"

Then the spoon was in his mouth.

In an (instantly regretted) reflex action, John swallowed.

It was the first time he had thrown up since they had that case with the killer who liked to turn people inside out.

At least Sherlock had the decency to look a little abashed when John emerged from the toilet, looking ashen-faced and shaky.

And, in what was nearly an apology, but not quite, Sherlock said meekly:

"Do you want me to go to the shops?"

John just threw him a dirty look, but inside he felt happy. He guessed that was a good enough _sorry_...for his sociopath anyway.

**After sensing that some of you were a little disturbed by the review button's bold and frankly quite ho-ish behaviour last chapter I suggest that this time you just give it a friendly, platonic shake of the mouse. (but don't forget to leave some nice comments :D )**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 – Responsibility (Part 1/2)

**You are deliciously gorgeous all of you ALL of you! But especially, my dear dear reviews. **

**Especially TogsTwilightFans you're are fantastic and brilliant and omygosh I loved all your reviews :) **

**Keep reading and thanks for everyone who checked out my other fic: Final Destination 221b Baker Street [SHAMELESS PLUGGING WARNING] Please read and review ;) **

"What the devil is _that?_" Sherlock said, pointing at the small animal in his flatmate's arms. He was quite excited; maybe it was a new specimen.

John looked sheepish.

"Don't blow a fuse OK?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, saying without words: _would I do that?_

John just gave him a look which sarcastically replied: _is Anderson a twat?_

He took a deep breath, "We-el, Sarah's great-uncle passed away last week and their family are travelling up to Belfast for the funeral. So she's asked me to look after her parent's dog for a few days,"

Sherlock nodded slowly, taking in this change of events.

"I think it's a shih tsu," John said, gingerly stroking its ears.

Sherlock frowned, "That's not very polite. It looks perfectly clean to me,"

A pause.

"...It's a breed Sherlock,"

"Oh yes. I knew that, I was testing you"

Sherlock went to say that he wanted to keep as far from the creature as possible but John got in first.

"And don't panic, I'll make sure you have nothing to do with it," John said.

Well, if that was how much his flatmate thought of him, Sherlock was changing plans.

"Oh no it's fine John, I don't mind helping out,"

John eyed him suspiciously. This wasn't like his self-obsessed, lazy friend. He needed a test.

"Fine, you can run down the supermarket and get some dog food,"

Sherlock shuddered. Exercise.

"Actually...I'm expecting a call from Lestrade any minute,"

"That's what I thought," John said smugly.

And so the dog became the doctor's priority for the next four days.

Day one went more or less without a hitch until late-evening when John went for a bath. He figured Sherlock could manage alone for half an hour. That was his first mistake.

Sherlock was busy writing his blog when the little dog came up to him. It pawed at the sofa then leapt up, rubbing its fluffy ears against him. Sherlock groaned, glared at it and pushed it away but the sheetzy or whatever it was called found great pleasure in this fun new game.

It rubbed up against him again. The more he shoved it, the more it came back. With growing annoyance, Sherlock simply pushed it off the sofa.

The little animal looked at him with wounded eyes then went to scratch at the front door. It needed to go out? Oh, it needed to _go out_. Right.

Sherlock assessed the distance from his sofa to the door and had a better idea.

"JOHN! Joh-ohhnnnnn!" he hollwered.

John came rushing in fifteen seconds later, his decency covered by naught but a hastily wrapped towel. His friend smirked.

"What?" he snapped.

Sherlock pointed.

"The dog needs to go out,"

John's complexion escalated up the dulux paint palette from _Spring Blush_ to _Roasted Red _in approximately ten seconds. Sherlock was taken aback. A new record. He must be angry.

"You're the laziest, most selfish person I've ever met!" John said, voice dangerously reaching yelling point.

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, tilting his head condescendingly. He peeredd intently at John's crotch.

"That accusation would have had a more serious effect if your towel hadn't slipped about a minute ago,"

He looked him up and down once more then went nonchalantly back to his typing; only daring to take a sneaky peak at the combination of rage and mortification on John's face. He didn't think any paint mixer in the world could replicate that.

It was a challenge to keep from posting the hilarious anecdote to his blog (Lestrade would certainly enjoy it), but Sherlock decided he didn't want to put his life at risk _that_way.

Chasing murderers was much safer.

**So basically I wrote this chapter because I love the idea of Sherlock and John having to deal with something but I'm not so keen on baby fics. A pet dog is like somewhere in between a pet baby and a pet rock right? Anyway REVIEW - Enjoy? Like? Love? Hate? Detest? Want to check out my other fic? Do it. Yup :)**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 – Responsibility (Part 2/2)

**MISSED YOU GUYS!**

**Sorry this took a little more time to update but I had a sudden author!****crisis of _NOOOOO no more ideas I cannot write I am a failure I shall be disowned by my fandom_ *laughs* Blame my messed up sleeping patterns. It's all good now though ;)**

**:O Back to school tomorrow so I will warn you, updates will be much less regular! Don't worry pals but I will definitely still be writing. It's just too much fun not to.**

**Thankyou so much to all my anonymous reviewers! Lucinalen, Hades, jaboodi, Nath ally you lot = BIGLOVE :)**

**Love you all to inifinity and beyond. I would happily spend for ever in limbo with you gorgeous lot (sorry for the lame inception reference) ENJOY!**

John was having a nice four-day weekend. No, he wasn't busy chasing the latest evil murderer on some haphazard route around the country but he_ was _enjoying some peaceful _me-time._

If you factored in the slight annoyance of Sherlock, that is. Though since the now infamous towel incident, his flatmate had kept a respectable distance. If he didn't know him better John would have said Sherlock was feeling guilty.

And so on a peaceful Tuesday in London, the two men were sat inside, John taking a day's holiday to look after Buster, Sarah's dog. (Sherlock had insisted this was a waste of a day's paid vacation but the glare from John had silenced him. Or caused him to go off and sulk, call it what you will)

John was lounging in the armchair, legs crossed, reading the paper and stroking the puppy. Sherlock thought he looked rather like a frumpy, urbane Bond villain and tried hard to stop from laughing, as he was sure to irritate the doctor. And since he was already (ironically) in the metaphorical doghouse_, _he didn't particularly want to push his luck.

Suddenly a loud, irritating electronic sound filled the room and Sherlock and John both jerked from their respective studies. John groaned as he felt a buzzing in his pocket. His pager.

_John, clinic practically overflowing. Please come down here. Double overtime pay? Sarah x_

John sighed. Technically it shouldn't be her job to page him but the clinic staff were surprisingly wily. They had realised that she had more power over him.

With a stifled groan John looked despairingly at the man in pyjama bottoms who was lounging on the sofa, _thinking apparently. _

He was on a case but it was taking a lot of brainpower, or so Sherlock insisted. In actuality he figured it out days ago, he was just making the rather wealthy and well-bred old lady sweat so she offered him a bigger reward. He didn't need the money, no, but she had some very influential contacts, some even Mycroft would envy. And if being bored meant annoying Mycroft, it was worth it a thousand times over.

But John of course knew none of this. And despite still being a little angry with his friend, he wasn't petty enough to want to disturb his work. So when he asked Sherlock the question, he tried to phrase it as kindly and politely as possible.

"Sherlock?" he started. He never even got a chance to finish.

"You've been called to the clinic. You need me to watch the thing,"

"It's a _dog_ and his name is Buster. But yes, would you? Please?"

"...No,"

_Calm John, calm. Yelling will only make him more obstinate. Try something else._

"_Please_ Sherlock. Look, I can't take it with me and it's just a puppy. It needs watching. If something happened to it, Sarah would never speak to me again,"

_Not strictly true, _thought Sherlock, _she's infatuated with you. Would forget about it after a while. Forgive you. Stupid, predictable, undeserving woman. _

"And that would interest me because?"

John thought for a second, trying to use Holmes' twisted logic.

"Because if she dumped me I would be heartbroken. Then you'd have to deal with that,"

Sherlock took this on board. _Would be rather inconveniencing, but would John be __**that upset**__? _He looked up, considering.

"What's in this deal for me?"

"What's in this for y-God Sherlock! Our friendship maybe? Is that worth a measly couple of hours looking after a dog? Taking it for a walk and feeding it? Am I not worth that?" John said, exasperated.

Sherlock considered this.

"Fine..." he said, standing up, stretching and turning into his bedroom. He emerged three minutes later dressed and with a lead in his hand.

"This once! And only because I am a _very_ good friend," he said with a tiny smirk.

When John left, it was not without a creeping sense of worry that he would return to a horrendous scene.

* * *

Exhausted and hungry John returned home, stopping to get some groceries on the way in. As he turned the key in the lock he said a few mental prayers to a God he wasn't sure he believed in. This didn't seem to matter. He'd follow any deity if they relieved him of these domestic spats.

Unfortunately it seemed like no one out there was listening to him because as he walked into the apartment he was presented with the terrifying, traumatising and frankly blood-pressure-raising sight of Sherlock putting Buster in the oven. John's stomach did three little somersaults before he launched into action.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" he bellowed, barrelling across the room and hurriedly snatching the dog from the oven.

"Drying it John, calm down. You'll give yourself an aneurysm," Sherlock said, smirking.

"I should have known that you'd try to do one of your sick experiments on it! And what the hell do you mean DRYING him? Why was he WET?"

John paused for breath. His throat hurt from yelling. Sherlock didn't reply and John noticed that his flatmate was dripping too. But...it wasn't raining outside.

"Actually, why are you wet?" He'd stopped shouting and Sherlock was glad about that.

"The _thing_ chose to go swimming in a pond. Then it started," Sherlock shuddered dramatically, "_drowning_. I did what I had to,"

While this wasn't a straight out lie, it wasn't strictly the truth either. Sherlock had sullenly taken the dog on a walk, bemoaning John's neediness, and everyone knows that attempting to sulk while you walk isn't easy. Subsequently Sherlock hadn't been looking where he was going, slipped on some mud and careered into the pond feet first, dragging the poor animal with him. It had taken several minutes of desperate flailing and attempted swimming before an old lady, with the help of a sturdy Zimmer frame, managed to drag him out. She proceeded to give him a custard cream, pat him on the arm and say 'happens to the best of us dear'. Needless to say it wasn't one of the detective's crowning glories and it definitely wasn't something he ever wanted to tell John.

Oblivious of the well-hidden truth, John himself was welling up with emotion. Sherlock had apparently done something for him, had even risked his life (sort-of). He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, tempted to hug him but deciding better. Neither of them was particularly into physical contact.

"Thankyou," he whispered, touched.

"Mmm, yes well," Sherlock said, feeling rather awkward and moving away. Why did he feel this bad, gripping feeling about lying? That _never _used to happen. He was going soft, he chided himself.

"Still Sherlock," John sighed, fetching a tea towel and drying the bedraggled dog, "Why the oven? You could have used my hairdryer,"

Sherlock looked at the wall, avioding eye contact, an almost sheepish expression on his face.

Actually, he couldn't use John's hairdryer. He'd broken it last week. In a fit of boredom, he'd attempted to play the game where you levitate a Malteaser with air, before catching in your mouth. Unfortunately Sherlock had forgotten that you usually do that by blowing through a small tube. The hot air had melted the chocolate, which fell back into the dryer, breaking the insides and causing a small but delicious-smelling fire. The remains of the appliance were still in the bins outside.

"The oven seemed neater," Sherlock said, picking through what John had bought from the shops.

John just shook his head and let the little (and now dry) dog scamper away. Towards Sherlock. It began licking his hand and the detective groaned inwardly. Why were irritating things drawn to him? Molly's face floated around his overcrowded mind.

"I really thought I had come in to find you experimenting on Sarah's dog," John said, wiping his head (rather dorkily) in mock relief.

Sherlock was hurt. John didn't think that little of him did he?

"I would never...you don't think I kill or torture animals do you?"

John was confused. That was rather what he had thought up until that point. But now he contemplated it, Sherlock killing an animal, torturing it was wrong, it wasn't something he could picture.

"I guess not. Do you order them off the net or something?"

Sherlock chuckled, "Oh, of course! Amazon have a thriving dead animals business,"

Sometimes John found it hard to tell when Sherlock was joking. So he said nothing, trying to save himself the almost inevitable _you're an idiot _comment. There was a vaguely awkward tension where Sherlock just stared at John, and then he laughed, tilting his head back.

"I'm yanking your chain Watson. I get them from the pet cemetery,"

Somehow John _knew _he wasn't joking this time and spluttered uncontrollably.

"You...do...what?"

"Oh it's quite simple. Newest, most expensive flowers means a new specimen. Even the most devoted, loving owners get stingy. Roses turn to lilies turn to daisies picked from around the grave. Anyway, I go, take the body and put everything back where it was,"

"That's _wrong! _Those are people's beloved pets!"

"Yes, and they're none the wiser. It's nobody's loss," _not that I would care, _he thought to himself.

"Still, it's the principal!"

Sherlock laughed again.

"If you hadn't noticed by now, social principals aren't exactly my forte,"

"You're incorrigible," John said, silently noting to tell Sarah that when the day came to make sure they cremated poor little Buster, or at least buried him a long way from London.

John started cooking dinner. He went to the fridge, putting the shopping away but was stopped by the corpse of a small thing that might once have been a rabbit.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you? Body parts on the bottom shelf. I don't want them dripping...juices on the vegetables,"

His flatmate sighed and sulkily moved the animal parts to the freezer instead. Slowly, a wicked grin crept across his face.

"Hey, guess what that one was called," he said, jabbing a finger at the freezer.

"I'm not playing your sick games,"

Sherlock just waited.

"...Flopsy?"

"Nope," Sherlock chuckled, "_John._"

**:D :D :D Happy Smiley Faces when you review! Leave a nice comment and you get an (imaginary!) wacky waving arm flailing inflatable tube man as a bonus!**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 – Concussion, Confusion and Terrible, Terrible Jokes

**SORRY FOR THE DOUBLE NOTIFICATION, I REALISED I'D UPLOADED THE WRONG VERSION. THIS ONE'S ALTERED A LITTLE, BUT NOT MUCH. SORRY FOR MESSING YOU LOT AROUND!**

**You guys! I've missed you so much you wouldn't believe. School was, predictably, a bore and I have two coursework pieces that need to be done for next Thursday which is partly why this chapter was so slow coming :( Bad times.**

**Also it's kind of different :/ Longer but not as many comedic moments :L I was trying to overcome a little hurdle in my ongoing plotline. Apologies for apparent drop in quality. I have quite a nice idea for the next chapter so don't lose faith.**

**And please please PLEASE DEAR GOD REVIEW :) You know how much you mean to be reviewers? The world. That is what you mean. Reviews have become my world.**

**On a non-fic-related-author-background-note: I had my ears pierced yesterday! So happy :) Oh yeah and I'm sixteen tomorrow :D Getting a new ipod touch and earrings ) HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY TIMES. But you know what would make better presents? Reviews!**

**Love and credit and thanks to my betareader/inspiration/bestfriend/freak who follows me around: chenoweth-in-space. oodles of noodles and love for you! :D xxxxxxx**

John and Sherlock were running hard, feet pounding the wet pavement, hot on the heels of the rapist they'd been tracking down for a week. It felt good, to see their hard work coming to a conclusion like this. Though it was tough going.

John's breath was catching in his throat, rasping, his heart pumping fast as it could to supply his aching limbs with the oxygen they sorely needed. _Damn those clinic hours! _John thought bitterly; _need to get back in shape._

Irritatingly Sherlock was running with the speed and grace of a young gazelle, easily gaining on their slightly doughier, podgy target. He even managed to look over his shoulder from time to time to throw John a smug glance.

Looking as if he had the wind under his heels, Sherlock tensed for a leap...and didn't see the puddle of oil right beneath his feet. Even with a fantastically low centre of gravity, Sherlock Holmes couldn't defy the laws of physics, and his frictionless foot slipped, sending him flying.

He teetered, falling backwards, arms wind-milling through the air and eyes wide with surprise. His head hit the concrete step with a sickeningly loud crack. Even their target looked back and let out a little 'oooh' of sympathy, before he legged it up a side ally.

John's body tried to freeze, but he forced himself to run faster, despite the fact he felt a stitch creeping up his side and his brain was locked in panic. All he could see was his best friend and worst flatmate lying nearly unconscious on the floor.

He knelt down by a groaning Sherlock, cradling the man's head in his lap. _No blood, _John noted feeling a cleansing rush of relief. Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and John tried to remember his basic first aid training. It would worry him later that his mind had been blank, but at that very instant all he could focus on was the shallow breaths entering and leaving his friend's mouth.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he said loudly, brushing the dark curls out of his friend's eyes"Can you hear me?"

"No," was the petulant, if a little woozy reply. John's body sagged with relief.

"What's your name?"

Sherlock mustered the strength to fix John with an incredulous and mocking stare. Amazing. Even when semi-unconscious he could find the time to patronise John.

"If you spend any longer at that ridiculous job of yours you'll become even more moronic. You _told _me my name. Sherlock Holmes, by the way, world's only consulting detective. I invented the job,"

_At least his ego is still intact_, he thought, but John confused by the insult.

"Why is my job ridiculous? I help people," he said, affronted.

"Oh poppycock, you know it is. You don't even enjoy it. It simply fulfils your need to control people, and to tell them what to do,"

John was now quite angry, not to mention upset.

"But I like my job. I don't think I'm controlling,"

"Liar. Take me home," Sherlock commanded, standing woozily up, grabbing John for support. He wasn't sure what was wrong with Sherlock but whatever it was was making him even more obnoxious than usual.

The ride in the taxi home was silent and uncomfortable. Sherlock was pointedly looking out of the window, refusing to make eye contact with John. Every now and then his head lolled and he let out a groan of pain. John moved to help him but was fixed with such a heated glare that the temperature in the car rose by about two degrees.

_At least he remembered where home is, _thought John unhappily, _though how much of a...prick he's being is worrying, what's wrong with him?_

John's mind went into overdrive, listing all the things that could be going wrong with his friend's head. They ranged from the possible to the downright ridiculous. At one point John contemplated whether something might have entered Sherlock's head, like a demon or something. How much worse could he get?

As the cab drew up outside Baker Street, Sherlock handed the driver a hundred note, which the man greedily accepted. John protested but was silenced by a haughty, "I can afford it" from Sherlock. _If that's the case, _John thought, _why did you make me pay for your pack of crisps this morning?_

Disturbed by Sherlock's behaviour, John followed him anxiously into their flat, checking to make sure he could walk straight. Once they were inside, Sherlock slumped on the sofa and closed his eyes.

"No no no no no!" John yelled, as his best friend's body relaxed into the first stages of sleep.

"What?" Sherlock asked tiredly, though the acidic tone of his voice was unmissable.

"You can't sleep. Not yet. I think you might have concussion," John walked over and tried to look at Sherlock's head but his hand was knocked away violently.

"This is so typically you. Always telling me what to do, thinking you know best," Sherlock spat.

John was absolutely dumbfounded. Sherlock was the bossiest, most demanding person the doctor had ever met in his entire life, yet there he sat on the sofa telling John that he was overbearing. Physically speechless, he stood there open mouthed, bearing a striking resemblance to a lemon.

Sherlock continued, despite this reaction.

"Even when we were little, you'd _order me_ to do something you knew was bad and when I did you'd go running off telling tales to Mummy," Sherlock was glaring daggers at John now.

John's brain was feeling very put upon as it tried to make sense of this sentence. It couldn't. Despite the lack of coherence, John was lucid enough to be amazed that Sherlock was talking about his childhood. He never did that.

Eventually the only semi-intelligible word to come out of John's mouth was a very confused:

"Mummy?"

Sherlock looked livid, and then stormed off to his room. The only thought that passed through John's addled brain was _I hope he's not going into there to sleep. He's definitely got concussion. I don't want to go in there after him._

Luckily, a few seconds later he stormed back out and thrust a picture of a highly groomed middle aged woman, with prominent cheekbones and salt and pepper hair into John's hands.

"There, since you seem so forgetful, you can have it. Put it on your bedside table. Then you can give Mummy a goodnight kiss!" Sherlock jeered.

"But...she's not my mum,"

"OH! So now you try to deny even _this_. You came from her WOOOMB! You can run from the fact but you can't hide the evidence! You're a Holmes through and through,"

Sherlock was going into a major strop now, tossing his hands around, and pacing the room in wonky figure of eights. John's doctor senses kicked in and he scanned the floor for any sharp objects (really, sometimes it was like living with a two year old). Satisfied there were none, the truth finally hit him, sending John reeling. _Surely_ Sherlock couldn't believe it was his brother standing before him...

"Sherlock, it's John_,_ John _Watson_, your flatmate,_"_

"Oh shut up Mycroft! Don't attempt to be clever, you'll find yourself exceedingly out of your depth. Anyway, your mind games never have worked on me. As you'll remember, even that week when you dressed me up in that _wig_ and Mother's lipstick and Cousin Aurora's dresses and forced me to perform a catwalk and called me _Shirley... _EVEN THEN I did not succumb to your garishly obvious plans,"

The detective was swaying alarmingly and bearing a resemblance to a boat he had once capsized. John (still not thinking straight) couldn't believe he'd never thought to call him Shirley before.

"And most of all Mycroft you really need to lose some _weight!" _he grinned maliciously, "Or you'll end up like Father. After all, you're well on your way," Sherlock said, poking John hard in the stomach.

Knowing close to nothing of Sherlock's family, John did not realise the significance of this remark, yet, judging from the tone, assessed it to be rather scathing.

Mr. Holmes Senior's heart had in fact been crushed from the crippling weight of his own body blubber. For the entirety of his life Mycroft had been attempting to fight this inherited weight trait, as he was the only one of his generation to receive this particular unwanted genetic coding.

Sherlock suddenly went quiet and pale, holding a hand to his throbbing head and groaning.

Seemingly tired by this sudden burst of energy, he went to the couch again, folding himself like a cat, head curled up to his knees. John sighed; he knew he'd have to keep Sherlock up for a few hours until it was safe for him to sleep again.

Positioning himself so Sherlock was within jabbing distance, he reached for a book. It was odd to remember the many different nights when he'd found himself awaking on this very sofa. It wasn't even that comfy. Maybe it was something to do with how lonely his room felt, and the oddly peaceful look on Sherlock's face when he slept. Sherlock seemed to dislike his room as much as John did.

That reminded John, he shouldn't be letting his friend sleep. He gave him a rough shove and Sherlock jolted, eyes flashing like a scared rabbit. Then there was a warm look of recognition and Sherlock patted his friend's knee sleepily.

"John!"

"Yes..." It was a good sign he had correctly identified him but experience where Sherlock was concerned had taught John many things. One of them; be on your guard at all times.

"I'm not allowed to sleep?"

"No. Sorry,"

Sherlock sighed, "I suppose it is normal procedure, though when have I ever been _normal?_"

"Although you may refuse to be normal Sherlock, the laws of science still apply to your body. No sleep,"

Grumbling, he turned away, leaning hard on John's shoulder. For a couple of minutes Sherlock alternated between trying to masquerade poking John as stretches and trying to get comfy. Neither worked. So, bored and tired, he fell asleep again.

There then developed a vicious cycle of Sherlock dozing, John poking, Sherlock moaning, John shouting and Sherlock sulking (which inevitably ended in sleep).

When the soft sounds of snoring drifted across the room for the umpteenth time, John groaned. He'd stationed himself as far as possible from an irritable (and prone-to-fits-of-violence-when-woken) Sherlock but knew he'd have to go and wake him. So John did what he did best, he reasoned with himself. This would be the last time. It had been about six hours since the blow and Sherlock's concussion was mild enough to let him sleep the rest of the night without much cause for concern.

If Sherlock woke up in the morning, John would check him over again.

Stiff with lack of sleep, he staggered over and sat heavily down on the arm of the couch.

"Sherlock! Wake up. Last time, I promise,"

One eyelid opened and he looked blearily upwards. John's face was all fuzzy and quite like a teddy bear's. Sherlock was so tired he wasn't thinking straight (unusual and scary, for him) but he did know there was something he'd realised he needed John to know. It escaped him at that moment, but while his brain was finding it, he'd amuse himself.

"Hey John! Wanna hear a funny joke?"

"Um..."

"Anderson!" Sherlock snickered and from his position saw a slight curve of John's lips. John did have a nice face.

"Hey hey I've got another one. What's the difference between Anderson and a common garden toad?"

"Is there one?"

"Yeah! Toads have more than two brain cells!" Sherlock chuckled, actually holding his stomach in laughter.

John shook his head in disbelief. This must just be a very twisted dream. Maybe he'd wake up soon and find that they had to go catch a rapist.

"I think you can probably go to sleep now. Wait a sec I need to check something, just watch my finger ok?"

Sherlock tried but really his attention span on something this mundane was very low. He found himself noticing what a nice shade of brown John's eyes were instead. Ah! His brain found what it was looking for. Like a kitten, he batted John's hand away.

"Have you ever considered the rumours people spread about us?" he asked.

John was confused.

"The ones that we're together or the ones that you're planning my brutal murder in stages?"

"Both I suppose. More specifically the first,"

He scratched his head and considered this.

"A bit. I mean, it's not like they're true so there's no worries,"

John looked so relieved that Sherlock smiled a small smile, but he felt his stomach sink a little bit. What was _this _feeling? It wasn't nice and it made him want to exit John's vicinity. Swiftly

John noticed the grimace (his flatmate's very rare I'm-trying-to-hide-something-from-you-for-your-own-good-face) and thought back over the conversation.

"Sherlock...do you think about it?" he asked dubiously.

There was no way he was going to like the answer, especially if it was long and complicated. Despite the fact his friend had always insisted he was a sociopath with the emotional range of a rock, John wasn't convinced. He had seen him happy, sad, moody, sulky (frequently), tense, excited and even scared. You just had to look a little harder than most people. So if he _was_ somehow...infatuated, it wouldn't end well for either of them.

Sherlock also felt a little out of his depth, so he lied.

"Not really. The idea of being stuck in a permanent relationship with someone so excruciatingly below my intellect repulses me."

With this attempt at a scathing retort, Sherlock got up, fortunately not wobbling (he calculated that would have decreased the impact of his statement by 64.25%) and turned to go to bed.

John bit back the urge to reply 'How much more permanent can you get when you're already living and working together?'

As the doctor pulled himself off the sofa he heard Sherlock stop in the doorway to his room.

"Though it is a pity you never did think of us like that doctor. I could have been your greatest adventure."

Sherlock closed his door with an oddly cheeky wink.

"You already are, dope," John murmured, smiling, to the empty room.

Both of them lay awake for a while that night still wondering if Sherlock had been joking or not.

**Disclaimer: Credit must go to AVPS for the greatest adventure line. My friend set me a challenge that I had to include it somewhere :L**

**BASICALLY I just wanted to overcome the problem of making it clear that sherlock finds john attractive but john is not that way inclined. Make sense? A bit. Apologies also for OOC!confused!concussed!Sherlock. I just wanted the bit about his childhood and the terrible jokes. :)**

**Up next: IKEA. Yeah. That's right. On tenterhooks? You should be :L Please review!**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 – But You Hate Shopping...

**Mmmkay first of all HAI DERE :D Missed you and your darling reviews/alerts/etc x**

**Thankyou for bearing with me (if you still are!) and sorry this was long coming.**

**Minor apologies because: this got pretty longwinded and convoluted and ergh just didn't turn out how I'd been expecting. Authors, you know what I'm talking ahout.**

**Major apologies because: I love you all and hate to keep you waiting like this. Also because I have no idea where the IKEA idea came from especially seeing as how I haven't been in about a decade. I did some very basic net research so apologies if Ikea know-how crapola :D**

**Reviewers: Thankyou thankyou a million times thankyou (8) A million thankyous are written...and here I am trying to tell you that I ca-aaare! (8) Take That tribute anyone?**

**Sorry I did this mostly unbeta-ed as well so any stupid mistakes are my own fault. ENJOY! ;D**

Something was wrong. Something was very, very, indescribably wrong. That was the first thing John noticed coming in the door.

The second thing he noticed was that the flat was quiet. Deadly, deafeningly, ominously silent. It meant his flatmate was not around.

John's imagination began a runaway rollercoaster ride of ridiculousness. A million scenarios rushed through his head. Sherlock had been kidnapped by Moriarty. Sherlock had run away with the circus, becoming their novelty deducing freak. Sherlock had tried to use the microwave and the less said about that the better. Sherlock had been taken prisoner by Somalian (land?) pirates and together they would bring the world new depths of terror...plundering Co-ops everywhere. Sherlock had gone out to get the milk and he was going to get run over by a bus driver he'd once insulted. Oh Christ, maybe Sherlock was using public transport. Sherlock had run away and was going to starve. Sherlock had been eaten by one of his specimens.

John's mind began to settle, as he took big, deep breaths.

Sherlock was with Lestrade. Sherlock was with his brother. Sherlock was with Mrs Hudson.

These last thoughts calmed John a little and he thought perhaps they weren't so farfetched. Especially the last one.

His flatmate might have nipped out to coerce the poor lady into once more becoming their Housekeeper, Secretary or any other jobs Sherlock thought below him and that John was to busy to do. On the other hand it might have been to explain (in a condescending and arrogant way no doubt) why the rent was late. Again.

Pushing (well, forcedly shoving) his many worries aside, John relaxed into the sofa, curling up with a paper and a cup of tea. Time to enjoy some (very rare) Sherlock-free peace.

Ten minutes later John was bored. He sat and 'hmmed' and 'ahhed' and watched Songs of Praise but that, if anything, added to the sense of mind-numbing monotony. He nearly got up when he thought there were footsteps coming down from his bedroom, but convinced himself it was just the boredom playing havoc with his imagination.

When Sherlock finally arrived, looking (to John's surprise) intact and well-groomed, John was about to go up the walls. Before he could get a word in edge-ways, Sherlock yanked him up by the hand.

"Let's go shopping."

"What?" John was immensely confused as Sherlock started clumsily putting John's jacket on for him. "You hate shopping..."

"The flat looks dull! It's boring and you know how I detest boring. Plus you also know how people say that a home's decor reflects its inhabitants."

"No, I don't. Anyway more importantly how do you know that? Last week you seriously asked me how _one could physically go about talking a leg off a quadruped_ and then how to experiment with this knowledge. You bought a donkey to test on!"

Sherlock blushed slightly and resisted the childish urge to simply shout back 'I did not!' while pouting. He changed the subject.

"It needs a new character and I think we should both assist in choosing. After all you spend enough time simply sitting around the place."

John attempted a witty and intelligent retort, found himself lacking and settled instead on spluttering incoherently.

"Buh-you-gah-ghh!"

Then, halfway through a rather decent point he was attempting to make about Sherlock's hypocrisy his throat seized up with indignation so he ended the sentiment screaming:

"YOU HIPPO!"

To which Sherlock smirked, raised an amused eyebrow and replied smoothly:

"Wrong Holmes brother. Come, John, let's go shopping,"

Sighing, John resignedly left Mrs. Hudson a short note, saying they'd gone out (after all she'd be in later to do the cleaning)

* * *

"IKEA?"

John looked up at the unforgivingly bright yellow and blue letters. They hurt his eyes.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Sherlock was staring intently at John, his grey-blue eyes firm and focused. John backed away slightly, preserving his personal space. It was intense.

"Um."

"No. I'm not. Come on!"

With that, Sherlock practically dragged his friend into the store. It was John's idea of an absolute nightmare. To his untrained eyes, which had never seen the rush-hour shopping crowd, it looked like all of London was in there...buying cheap Swedish flat-pack furniture. He groaned and gave Sherlock a pleading look, then glancing towards the exit, but the detective was off already and striding with purpose towards the bedroom section.

Grumbling to no one in particular and receiving odd looks from a five year old girl (her thoughts: _I didn't think grown-ups had imaginary friends? He must be one of those people Mummy says we mustn't stare at.) _John followed his real friend, practically running to keep up. Shopping with Sherlock was one thing. Being lost in this madness all alone was another.

* * *

Half an hour later John was finding it unbelievable that he gave up the peace and quiet of their flat for _this. _And he was missing Deal Or No Deal (his hatred for Noel Edmonds and his taste in shirts aside, he was desperate to know how Sherlock _always_ chose the right box. It had become his solemn vow to watch enough episodes to get the (seemingly impossible) knack of it)

He cursed softly as yet another arty-farty type rudely barged past him, knocking his shoulder.

Sherlock on the other hand, was in his element, bustling around without a care to anyone's toes/personal space/feelings and choosing (it seemed) the most hideous furniture he could find.

"Pea green _and _carrot orange? What are you trying to do, make me throw up? Though you wouldn't even notice with this disgusting pattern," John asked loudly, pointing to a bedding set that looked like an optical illusion he'd once seen and earning himself a disapproving glare from a member of staff.

"It's _chic,_" The detective insisted, toying with the bright purple tassles.

"Oh for the love of- it's called the Fartyg set! And what does _chic_ even mean?"

Sherlock stood deep in thought for a moment, then strode off, shouting behind him.

"...Come on John let's go get writing tools, I want to put down the order for your new bed."

While John thought his current bed was perfectly adequate, apparently Sherlock thought the _entire _flat needed a makeover.

The tall man grabbed a pencil from the little pot and then let out a noise of surprise. It was absolutely tiny. There was a tone of wonderment in his voice.

"John look!"

"What?"

"They're so small. You'd need to be a dwarf to use this!"

He paused and then thrust the offending object at the shorter man who puffed in indignation.

"I'm of a normal, average height thank you very much!"

Sherlock just shrugged and walked away; peering over an old woman's shoulder at her order and tutting (she'd bought the Fidgect set. Silly choice) though the doctor could swear he heard him mutter, "Yes, average height for a pygmy."

Once all the items that they needed (_need is an overstatement, _thought John) were written down they ventured into the warehouse. The air was cold and it made the hairs on their arms stand up. Sherlock shivered.

A couple minutes later, after a slight kerfuffle with a trolley, an excitable detective and a shelf-stacking spotty faced teenager with a now very bruised shin, they were in the bed aisle. Sherlock was teetering on a ladder, balancing a heavy package in his arms when the lights went out.

It was absolutely pitch black. John couldn't see his hand in front of his face let alone Sherlock although he could hear him clambering down the ladder.

"Are you OK?" John asked tentatively.

"Yes. Of course," Sherlock's voice was predictably condescending.

"Good. I mean...I just thought cos of the storms thing that maybe..."

"I'm not afraid of the _dark_ John," Sherlock scoffed, "That would be childish."

Then there was silence. After a while:

"What are we going to do?"

No reply.

"Sherlock?"

It was irrational but John felt his heart start to beat a millisecond faster each time until it became a rapid palpitation. He could hear nothing. He could see nothing. And now he had that horrible, tingling, sickening sensation that something terrible was creeping up on him.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed, anxiously flailing his arms, worried for his friend. What if Sherlock had walked into a wall and knocked himself out?

"Oh for fuck's sake CAN SOMEBODY GET THE BACK-UP GENERATOR GOING PLEASE?" John yelled at the top of his lungs but once more there was no answer. No answer whatsoever. The silence was so oppressive John thought he could feel himself shrinking.

He wasn't afraid of the dark but this eerie _silence _and atmosphere was so creepy he felt sick. Sick with worry for Sherlock too, so sick the nausea kept building and building. It was getting colder, he thought, and began to shake and shiver and he clasped the shelves for support.

He was reminded of long nights waiting, so long you forgot where and who you were. Listening for rounds of firing from the enemies. Getting so cold and numb you couldn't feel anything. Until you got shot that is...

A deep, painful spasm shooting down leg made him gasp with pain. Once his heavy breathing began to settle, he could hear again.

John nearly passed out as a sudden echoing noise assaulted the heavy quiet.

He could hear the strangest, softest, pitter-patter footsteps. Creeping. Then came a barely audible breathy whisper...almost like a giggle.

_This must be a dream. Seriously John snap out of it. IKEA, power cuts, nightmarishly scary footsteps? This isn't real. Wake up wake up wake up._

He was still praying and willing himself not to be sick when a hand clasped his shoulder and squeezed and there was a deafening shout of 'BOOOO!' It overloaded his nerve-racked system and John collapsed, falling into a blackness within a blackness.

* * *

_Light. It's light. God I have to get up, got clinic duty to day. Got to make Sherlock breakfast. So tired..._

These were John's thoughts as he came to, eyelids flickering. However odd it may seem to others, he was not surprised to find Sherlock staring intently at him, only inches away.

It took John a couple of groggy minutes to realise he was in fact not in his bed, safe at home but lying on the floor of IKEA, with a large bump on his head and surrounded by several intense staff and a couple of nosy customers.

One teenager was taking a video with his phone. Sherlock noticed and decided to check for it on Youtube later. Then he might post it to Lestrade...

"What the hell's going on?"

"It seems," Sherlock mumbled quietly, "That when the lights went out you...had an episode and passed out,"

"An episode?"

John's voice was dangerously low...things were starting to come back to him now. Feelings. Darkness. Footsteps. A hand. A childish _BOO! _

"YOU PRICK!" he yelled, clutching Sherlock by the collar.

The staff were scandalised and a nearby mother but her hands over her daughter's ears and hissed at John.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!" Then she stalked off, throwing the angry doctor dirty looks.

Sherlock ran a hand through his tousled locks and suppressed a smirk at the look of indignation on his friend's face. Smirking probably wasn't the most sensible thing right now, it would most likely provoke an angry (and confusing, Sherlock thought) reaction from John.

Sensing that John actually had quite a lot more to say than this...and that it wasn't going to be pleasant family viewing appropriate for the whole of the shop floor, Sherlock assured the staff his friend was fine, and dragged said friend (hopefully he could still call him that) through the labyrinthine maze towards the checkout.

John was the one sulking for once, muttering death threats all the way.

Predictably the checkout was noisy and busy and they were pushed and shoved around like cattle at a farmer's market. They finally found a short-ish line.

When the lady read out the total, John was confused.

"I mean I know it's cheap, but that's ridiculous? You bought loads..." he whispered in an aside to the detective who was suddenly getting that slightly irked expression about him that looked like irritation to the rest of the world, but to John meant one thing. Guilt.

"In my panic for your safety, I...lost our other trolley," Sherlock murmured, examining a particularly interesting ceiling tile and avoiding the accusing stare of his friend.

This was a lie. Sherlock had intentionally careered their trolley into an insufferably fat-headed Mycroft-type man he'd taken an instant dislike to. The flat was fine anyway.

They left the shop with just one item.

* * *

When the pair finally got home, there was a stony, awkward silence thickening the air. John's new mattress was being delivered in 3-4 days' time and apart from that and the bedstead they had made no other purchases.

Still being _majorly_ pissed off with Sherlock for the whole let's-scare-John-so-much-he-passes-out thing (or as Sherlock referred to it in his head the John-overreacting-and-being-a-big-baby ordeal) he refused to even speak to th detective let alone ask why they'd gone to IKEA in the first place if all they were going to get was one bed.

Little did John know he'd find out soon enough.

When Sherlock asked if he wanted a cup of tea (A rarity. Sherlock offering that is. Not the tea. They _always _had tea) the doctor simply glared and decided to go do his reading in his room.

Trudging up the stairs one by one, a foreign smell pervaded his nostrils. It was vaguely familiar...though as memory served, it didn't belong in his bedroom. He associated it more with the kitchen. Oh dear. That was a bad sign.

Opening his bedroom door he gasped in horror. The floorboards were a blackened mess around where the bed had been, smoke still clinging to the air in the room, and to the curtains and now it was making its way up John's nasal passage. His eyes began to sting but he assessed the room as detachedly he could.

The bed had indeed gone. The wardrobe was intact, if a little singed. Oh God what would they tell Mrs. Hudson? Scratch that, what would _Sherlock_ tell Mrs. Hudson. This was his fault and sweet heavens above John was going to murder him.

Careful not to get ash on his trousers (no great loss, Sherlock would have said) he stretched out, attempting to get his anger under control. He was having a little trouble with this until he saw a small piece of paper on the dresser.

He snatched it, presuming it was what remained of one if his library books. It wasn't (they were actually all burnt to a crisp hours ago)

_Dear__ John,_

_If you are reading this, which I find highly unlikely then my plan has not gone according to well, plan. _

_Your room is probably still in some state of disorder and this displeases you. Although why _that_ is, I'm not sure. _

_In short: there was some experimenting with a gasoline/gunpowder hybrid and unfortunately your wooden floorboards took offence to this._

_You are also quite possibly still angry with me for the mess and I am sorry. It was not my intention. The shopping trip clearly has not gone well and there was insufficient time to return your abode to its usual anally neat state. _

_I have also probably spun some intricately brilliant lie _(Here John snorted loudly, mouth pulling upwards) _which I am afraid you must now discredit. _

_Hopefully you will see your anger is misplaced and apologise for your rudeness. Tea is undoubtedy waiting downstais._

_Your flatmate,_

_Sherlock_

John had to laugh. If he didn't he thought he might go mad. Once he'd starting chuckling he couldn't stop, he began to roll around, clutching his sides and roaring until tears streamed down his eyes.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and the door burst open. In came a very confused looking Sherlock, who had a tea-coloured wet patch on his trouser crotch and legs.

John laughed even harder, clutching the painful stitch in his stomach. (Sherlock had given him some very strong pain medication when he first awoke after passing out and hitting his head, which didn't react well to stress)

"Have an accident?" John giggled, wiping his wet cheeks.

Sherlock looked down at himself and smirked.

"Excellent. A joke worthy of Anderson,"

"Ouch, that hurt!" John replied with a sharp intake of breath and suddenly they were back to normal.

Sherlock, being careful not to sit on an ashy patch which proved rather challenging, sat on the floor too and they both shared a look.

"Did all that actually happen today? Maybe you should pinch me just in case I-OW! Expression, Sherlock."

"Oh."

"So."

"Well."

"Urm so all that effort was for a bed?"

"I needed you out of the house so I could remove the debris," Sherlock gestured to the space where there had indeed once been a bed.

John winced and his friend pondered whether he should apologise again. He didn't have to, as John spoke first.

"So that speech about the flat being dull and _boring_ was a lie?"

"Mostly. Then again dull and boring isn't always so hard to become accustomed to," Sherlock said, nudging John playfully.

"Oi!"

They smiled. John surveyed the room. It wasn't such a great loss, it _had _actually needed a little work. John groaned internally at the thought of making a return to that hellhole. Maybe he'd send Sherlock as punishment. Though no doubt he'd come back with a bright pink touch lamp and a lime green swivel chair. A maroon and yellow striped loveseat instead of a bed.

On that matter...

"Hey! Where am I going to sleep?"

Sherlock's brow crinkled.

"I purchased a new bed for that express purpose."

"Well the mattress is going to take a while! Plus I'm going to need these floorboards redone..."

"Ah. The sofa?"

John paled. It would murder his shoulder and stiff leg. Sherlock seemed to think of this too.

"Sarah's?"

It pained Sherlock to suggest it, but at least there the doctor might get a decent night's rest.

"I don't know. We're not at that stage yet..."

And John feared they never would be. Four months of dating and yet they hadn't gone further than a long snog and a quick grope. The army lads would have slaughtered him for the abysmal progress. That was another good thing about Sherlock, he wasn't interested in John's lovelife...a far as John was aware.

Oh Lord. If it couldn't be the sofa or Sarah's (and Mrs. Hudson's and the hobo brigade were both out of the question) then it had to be-

Sherlock seemed to have the exact same thought at the exact same time and they spoke simultaneously.

"Oh no way!"

"This should be interesting..."

Sherlock stood up, dusted off his trousers and turning to go downstairs.

"Sherlock that's not happening in a million years!" John yelled after him.

He stopped and turned, leaning one hand on the door way, smiling in a very feline way.

"Tut tut Watson. So insecure. If you come up with an alternative solution to the problem please do let me know. And if the thought of being so close to my person of an evening repulses you then feel free to sleep on the hard...lumpy...unforgiving sofa. I'm sure it'll work out perfectly."

Sherlock left John looking thoughtful and smirked as he descended the newly carpeted stairs, (which had incidentally been the first victims of Sherlock's most recent and most volatile experiment)

He was pleased with the outcome of the day's work and was sure it would bring about tales that Lestrade and the many readers of his blog would someday be telling their grandchildren.

The detective smiled. Dull and boring wasn't always so bad.

**So...I took the review button to the IT clinic the other day. Turns out she has Clickmydia. You guys should get yourselves tested :/ LOVE YALL TO THE MOON AND BACK AGAIN XXx**


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 - Sleepover

**OMG GUYS! ;) Missed you. School sucks. So boring. The only things that relieve the hideous monotony are my incredibly friends and the thought of reviews from you lot. So please keeep up the stellar work because you make me SO happy :D**

**ENJOY! **

He couldn't justify it. Really he couldn't. There was no way that sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock Holmes could ever be deemed acceptable or appropriate or _sane. _

John shuddered. It was like sleeping next to your nan or your great-uncle Jim...something you just never even wanted to contemplate. Plus, he bet Sherlock was a snorer.

Though there really weren't that many other options. The sofa was out. Far too much pain, he'd decided that after a couple of terrible nights at Sarah's. If he did, his shoulder would become an absolute nightmare.

In desperation, he'd actually gone to Mrs. Hudson but she didn't have a spare room, although she actually offered him half her double bed.

John had laughed at the time...but now was having to seriously consider the option. It had got that bad. It had become a case of the lesser of two evils.

Sighing, John looked at the clock hanging on the clinic wall. Another three hours of boredom, of mundane sniffles and colds and toddlers with rashes. It was such a stark contrast between the energy and excitement of working with Sherlock that sometimes he felt the clinic would send him insane (In reality, it was good for John's mental health to have this balance. It provided stability)

On a whim, John whipped out his phone.

_Were you serious about the sleeping arrangement thing? JW_

He only had to wait twenty seconds before his phone vibrated.

_Did you have a better solution? SH_

John frowned. He didn't want to admit defeat.

_Why do you answer my questions with questions? JW_

_Why is a raven like a writing desk? SH_

_Now you're being ridiculous. JW_

_Am I? SH_

John ignored this last text, partly because you had to draw the line with Sherlock but mostly because there was a knock on the door and an overweight, bigoted man with a slight cough came in. John could imagine Sherlock's glee if he realised the clinic was actually _duller_ than what the detective had imagined.

_Can you get some milk on the way home? PS. Seeing as you haven't mentioned it, I assume you will be sleeping with me. SH_

John grunted in annoyance. He'd have to teach Sherlock how to phrase that better. People might get (well, continue to get) the wrong idea.

* * *

The time was nearing eleven o'clock and John was getting sleepy. He'd left it too late to go to Sarah's now, Mrs. Hudson was ruled out and the sofa looked brutal as ever.

Sherlock stretched and stood up, turning the telly off. He looked at his bedroom door and smirked. God that was an irritating expression, John grumbled silently.

"Coming?"

"Are we seriously going to do this?"

Sherlock gave John a look. It was a challenge. John sighed and heaved himself up, nearly stumbling when his leg buckled, but Sherlock had tossed his cane over just in time. The doctor smiled, maybe sharing a room _and bed, _he thought, wouldn't be that bad. Sherlock could be mature enough when he wanted.

Gathering his pyjamas, he went to change in his bathroom. When he returned to the living room it was empty and dark. There was a sliver of light coming from underneath Sherlock's door and John took a moment, steeling himself for whatever awaited him.

He didn't take nearly long enough.

"DEAR GOD SHERLOCK PUT ON SOME CLOTHES!" John yelled, covering his eyes and turning away. There was no way that particular image was ever leaving his retina. Oh lord, he'd be thinking of it during breakfast, work and in his nightmares.

"Why?" Sherlock smirked, sliding under the covers, so that below the waist was covered by quilts "It's my room. I always sleep na-"

"Don't say it for God's sake! I don't need a sound bite to go with that horrific image,"

"It's liberating. And anyway, at least this makes us even in what we know about each other,"

John cringed visibly and Sherlock laughed. It was always entertaining to wind John up like this.

"Trust me Sherlock, I didn't want to get even!"

John stood at the bottom of the bed, looking awkward but feeling ten times more uncomfortable than he let show.

Sherlock crossed his arms, looking perturbed.

"Well...aren't you going to get in?"

John rubbed a weary hand across his forehead.

"Fine," He said, propping his cane against the bed and picking his way across the minefield that was Sherlock's bedroom floor, "But I'm warning you, if any single part of your body touches me it's not going to be attached for you for much longer, and will definitely be making an appearance in the freezer with all the other mangled corpse-y bits."

Sherlock just smirked and turned off the lights as John clambered awkwardly under the duvet. It was _weird_ being this close to Sherlock, especially as he was...NO the doctor blocked that thought out.

They lay there, John tensing every one of his muscles, lying down on what was the furthest point from Sherlock physically possible on a King-sized bed.

A thought tip-toed tentatively through John's mind.

"Hey! You're not recording this for some sort of twisted reality TV show are you? Like, _My Best Friend's An Idiot. _Or maybe...Oh Lord tell me you're not linking this to Lestrade?"

Sherlock said nothing for a long while and John wondered whether the man was asleep but eventually there was a muffled whisper.

"John stop talking. We're not thirteen you know. This isn't a slumbering festival..."

John snorted loudly, covering his face with his hand.

"You what?" He whispered when he could manage to breathe.

"I'm not some American teenage adolescent who wishes to talk about her newest crush, the hunky Rock Hudson-look alike at highschool. Go to sleep!"

...

"I think I just learned more about you than I ever wanted to know."

"Shh! I need my slumber."

John was about to retort that Sherlock never needed sleep when they were working on a case, but was abruptly stopped by small, soft snores. He sneered.

"You're a terrible actor Sherlock."

...

"Sherlock?"

...

"I give up. It's a sleepover by the way, not a...whatever you said."

And with that John attempted to get some rest, whilst cataloguing all the various insults that could be generated from the revealing comments his friend had made.

* * *

It was really cold. And John was shivering profusely. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and turned to yank his covers back. When they wouldn't budge he remembered (with great horror) the fact that a naked Sherlock was cocooned within them.

Groaning, John tried the method most use when trying to remove a tablecloth without the contents of said table crashing to the ground, a quick, sharp yank of one corner.

Sherlock mumbled angrily, swatting and John froze.

"No Mycroft! Mummy said it was my turn to have Fluffy McSnugglebottom tonight!"

John had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from laughing. Eventually when the fit of giggles had subsided he managed (through great effort, inch by painstaking inch) to get enough duvet.

He fell asleep with a sense of glee, and wondered exactly how enraged Sherlock would be if he posted a new and rather revealing blog about his flatmate in the morning. It was with that magic madness of sleep messing with his brain that John sort of wished he had a picture of the detective in all his natural glory.

It would have been excellent blackmail material.

**Reviews bitty bit (skip all you non-reviewers, YOU BREAK MY HEART, i mean no, no you don't have to read this , it's not for you )**

**glargles of glasgee: aww thankyou, you are a gem my wee bonny chick! ;)**

**: :D copy and paste as much as you want! makes those chosen pieces of text feel special ;) love to you as always!**

**moonagedaydreaming: heeHEE ;) personally i think things are always funnier when you're not meant to be laughing. like when you're in class and you get the giggles and something not very funny immediately becomes hilarious. thanks for your review :D!**

**Hades Lord of the Dead: WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN YOUNG MAN? I've missed you! But yaaaaaaaaaaaaay an account. Your review? Awesomely nice, as usual! **

**katkin: YOU HIPPO! I kid, but hey come on if it's the best insult ever (thank you!) then I feel we need to use it more often ;)**

**Shark By Only: You sir are the hippo! I am a beautiful platypus. Sorry, i just love platypus...es? platypusi? who knows :L Oh my gosh well I hope you enjoy this and it wasnt too long to wait (itwas kind of a long time) SORRY! LOOOOVE xxx**

**TogsTwilightFans: Heeeheeee i've actually broken two keyboards by spilling stuff on them...the parents weren't happy but i blamed it on the little brother. Does that make me a bad person? Probably :L And IKNOW those pencils are so tiny only illiterate children can use them :/ gah.**

**DevonWren: Sherlock is a naughty boy! I'm so glad you enjoyed it :D SO happeh ;) Hope you enjoyed this one as much!**

**GlassSlipprs: Well usually it is against my nature to disclose plotpoints ;) lolol but no actually, this is just a friendship fic...despite (now i thnk about it) what this chapter may imply. I just kind of imagined Sherlock as a bit of a flirt but no, John is not that way inclined...in this fic. If you're looking for some good S/J (slightly cracky) fic then I'm writing one atm called Chequebook for Lovers. Anyhoozle, much love for you! xxxxxx**

**Luincalen: I'm sorry I spelt your name wrong :'( I think I might be very slightly dyslexic. Thank you for your loooooovely reviews. You make me happeh XD xxxx**

**Battie-4-Battie-Boys: MORE MANLY(S) XXXXX**

**Interesting Fic Fact #1: Polar bears love toothpaste! If they raid explorer's camps they leave the meat and food and actually sniff out the Colgate/Sensodyne/Crest. At last now if you're ever in the position where you have to smell a polar bear's breath at least you know it will be minty fresh!**


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 - Sick

**Guys :) I miss you and your reviews so much. Sorry it's been forever but unbelievably busy. Love you all more than my new favourite band The Midnight Beast, check them out on youtube xxxxxxxxxxxx**

The ordeal of the sleeping arrangements was thankfully long over and forgotten about. By Sherlock that is. John would never, ever forget those hellish, often-cold nights of terror and (hilarious...yet disturbing) mutterings from his flatmate.

Unfortunately the events had left John owing his friend a big favour (apparently) which meant he was coming in every morning to bring him tea and toast, like a damned maid.

Barging rudely through the door with the ominously wobbling tray, John limped across to Sherlock's bed and tossed the morning's paper onto his friend's face.

The curtains were drawn and light flooded into the room. A groan from Sherlock was not unusual; he was a creature of the night by nature and often averse to light (By a stroke of coincidence he also disliked garlic. John rather thought that if vampires did exist, Sherlock would have been quite the specimen). However John thought he heard something a little different, a kind of little pleghmy sound in the throat.

When he turned around he was shocked to see that Sherlock hadn't even moved the paper off his face, nor moved an inch. With a growing sense of worry, John lifted the paper then sighed. Sherlock was green. Not the funny cartoon-character-green you come to expect in your childhood from watching too much TV.

No, it was a far more worrying pale green-grey that more resembled a zombie (or sick vampire) than anything else.

"Sherlock?"

"Nnngh."

"Christ," John muttered. The day Sherlock was lost for words was a dark day indeed, "Just lie still, I'll get you a bowl."

Sherlock nodded weakly.

When John reappeared he shook his head in disbelief (a gesture that had become almost as common as breathing where the detective was concerned). Sherlock was sat up, texting. Ignoring the protests, John removed the offending device. Usually this would have provoked a physical fight and/or absolute fury but Sherlock was weak and settled for a half-hearted slap.

"You're sick, no phone for you. Rest, sleep! I know you'll hate it but you have to let your body heal. I think it's mild gastritis so I'll get you some antacids at work. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson what's up and she'll come check on you every now and again, OK?"

John looked at his friend who was now curled up like a foetus (half-sulking about the phone, John supposed), shivering under the blankets and clutching his abdomen. His chocolate curls were sticking to his forehead with sweat and John brushed them gently, worrying. He was always worrying about Sherlock.

He had to go to work, or else they'd be even more behind on the bills than they already were. So, with a heavy heart and a sense of foreboding John left the apartment, and Sherlock. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson could deal with it.

* * *

Every tick of the clock was agonizingly slow. There wasn't even anyone due for an appointment til that afternoon so John was stuck with the mind-numbing paperwork.

He began to stare at his mobile, quietly willing it to ring. He started spinning it around his fingers, urging that call from his flatmate, the one where Sherlock was petulant, demanding him to come home, insisting that he was needed.

When the device buzzed in his hand John nearly had a heart attack and thought for a few sweet seconds that he had successfully mastered telekinesis (he'd find out later he was wrong when he tried to fix the oven using mindpower. He just got a very bad headache and a cold dinner)

Temporary shock over, John answered the phone.

"Sherlock?"

There was an awkward silence.

"Um no, but it's about him."

"Sorry, who is this?" John asked feeling more than a little embarrassed.

"It's Lestrade John, I've got Sherlock here but I'm going to take him back to your flat. He – urr- vomited earlier and there was some blood. He's looking pretty terrible as well so I'm going to accompany him back. I'll see you back at Baker Street?"

John already had his coat on and was halfway out the door.

Back home, while the doctor was limping up the stairs, the strains of an argument floated downwards.

"Look just take the blanket will you!"

"Don't...n-need it. Not in shock n-n-now. Don't mother me Lessy,"

"Right jus...did you call me Lessy?"

"Too much of a m-mouthful,"

John only caught the last lines because he'd entered the living room. Otherwise Sherlock's slightly embarrassed whisperings would have escaped him forever. John was all ready to take the piss but couldn't find the heart when he turned to his friend.

He looked rough. Pale and shaking, the detective sat with his head nestled between his hands. His face had a dull grey-green complexion again, but darker, more serious and John was glad to see the sick bowl was nearby.

"What happened?" John asked, addressing the Inspector.

"Well, he came to the station this morning with details on a case. Looked a bit pasty but I reckoned he'd just been working hard. Then he threw up on half my team."

Really John's next question should have been something medical, about the consistency or colour or smell. However...

"Which half?"

"Anderson and Donavon," Sherlock murmured from behind his hands, managing a one-sided grin.

"Good shot," John murmured, winking at Sherlock whose smile morphed into a proper full on cheesy smirk.

Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly then looked with worry towards Sherlock who had begun to shake violently.

John bent down, ignored the pain in his leg, and looked Sherlock in the eye, talking slowly and clearly as if to a child.

"Please will you put this blanket round your shoulders? It is purely for your health. You're actually ill this time, it isn't for shock or anything."

Nodding, a little reluctantly, Sherlock drew the warm woollen folds around him.

Lestrade looked on despairingly.

"Wish I could get him to listen to me like that," he muttered, not really meaning to.

John smiled.

"Trust me, that was unusually complacent. He's normally a stubborn ass."

"Oh believe me John, you don't know the worst of it!"

"Still h-here you realise, n-not deaf," chattered Sherlock.

Lestrade excused himself and nodded goodbye to the both of them, wondering what exactly the set up was at 221b Baker Street.

"Why did you go?" John asked, setting a cup of hot tea down next to Sherlock.

The detective turned and stared at the concern in his friend's eyes and found he could not lie. It was a feeling Sherlock didn't like. He was a sociopath by nature, which meant lying should come more naturally than anything. What was it about this mild-mannered, gentle man that made him _feel_? Instead of lying, he hid behind a cliché.

"No rest for the wicked." He chuckled humourlessly.

John didn't leave it though. He gave Sherlock that _look_ and the detective found himself slumping against John, who although extremely surprised, opened his arms and embraced his sick friend. Later on he would look back on that moment in incredulity, it was so...strange.

"Because," Sherlock muttered quietly, "What good am I if I can't think? If I can't work? I'd be just another useless lunatic."

John breathed in deeply. It gave him a physical pain in his gut, seeing Sherlock this vulnerable. Especially as he wasn't drunk, or drugged or concussed. Just poorly, and it was with almost matriarchal tenderness that John whispered into his friend's ear.

"You're not useless. You're staggeringly intelligent and brilliant..." there was a long pause, "and my best friend. I don't think my life would work properly without you, not anymore." John said. Then, overcome by a blush of realisation, felt rather slushy and gently unwrapped himself from a quiet and thinking Sherlock and went to busy himself with the kettle, even though Sherlock's mug hadn't even been touched.

That night, John lay awake pondering if what he'd said had come from feeling pity for Sherlock and (his doctor instincts kicking in) wanting to give him comfort, or whether it was a feeling he'd had for a long time.

When sleep finally heavied his eyelids, John thought he knew.

**sweet, sweet friendship! xxxxxxxxx**


	20. Chapter 20

Case Closed

**A/N: Because we need a little comedy after..._that episode_. (I can't wait for the third series.) This isn't the funniest chapter but I think it rounds the story off quite nicely. Thank you all of you for your reviews. You are truly wonderful.**

Sherlock stalked angrily across the wooden floors of the shabbily furnished 'B' flat of 221 Baker Street. It wasn't that he was bored _exactly_ (himself and the ever-loyal Doctor Watson were in the middle of a rather delightful little murder case involving arsenic, adultery, and fine cheeses). It was just that without the self-same doctor trailing after him, offering his usually wrong, sometimes marvellously simple suggestions, Sherlock found he didn't have the same sort of motivation.

In short, there was no one to impress.

His sharp eyes flicked over to the skull sitting on the mantelpiece. Its dark sockets seemed to taunt him, to mock his distraction from the task at hand. It was practically yelling, "You used to be able to solve things with just ME for company. Now look at you. Driven to distraction."

In two quick steps he'd grabbed the old cranium and shaking it in a fierce way.

"Don't look at me so Yoric! John has been away for _days _on end which I think is really rather inconsiderate. What do you mean how do I know? I know because no one has made me a weak coffee, or a lukewarm cup of tea, **or **a burnt piece of toast and therefore I am tired and irritable and I wouldn't be this way had not a considerable period of time elapsed since my last substandard yet caffeinated drink. You know, at times I wonder if I don't need a more punctual dogsbody. One who wouldn't swan off without a by-your-leave."

In reality John had been away for just over three hours, working his usual Saturday afternoon shift at the surgery. For a self-proclaimed genius it was remarkable how many little things the great detective managed to overlook.

As Sherlock was beginning another heated rant to the inanimate object the stairs creaked, and he span like a ballerina, replacing the skull, taking a seat and switching his expression to an intense, pensive one (fingers splayed, steepled and pressed to his lips) all in a single fluid movement.

When the door opened he faked mild surprise and said, "Oh it's you," in a vacant, off-hand manner, "Are you back already? Goodness I didn't even notice you'd left."

John shut the door behind him, took his coat off and smiled in an odd manner at Sherlock, "Really?"

The detective glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, a rapid stream of thought coursing through his mind in less than half a second; _Could he have suspected my distraction? No, no it must be a wild stab in the dark, God only knows he makes enough of them, bumbling around with that tiny peasant brain of his. Life really must be so pleasantly simple in John's world. _

"No, actually it escaped my attention. I've been busy with the details of the Claudia Hissen affair - and in fact I've made a breakthrough," Sherlock said with a sudden exulted look. He clapped his hands together in glee.

This statement hadn't been true up until the moment he'd said it. All at once the glorious feeling, that ethereal sixth sense of everything falling into place came over him. The room was alight with clues that slotted one by one into their correct position in the tale.

He turned slowly to the doctor whose presence seemed to illicit some conditioned neurone hyperaction in the detective's brain.

"Oh-ho we've been so **stupid** John, so uncommonly stupid, absolute dullards! Well, _I have_ - you've been playing your normal role with remarkable continuity and panache. Thankyou."

The doctor wrinkled his nose in a disgruntled manner but decided to let it go for the present. It was always exciting to watch his friend once he got going. Sherlock took a pause for breath and John recognised it as a signal for the denouement. Promptly (and acting on past experience) he took a seat to save himself getting pins and needles.

"We assumed it was Claudia Hissen's lover who had been slowly poisoning her - through presents of hideously expensive cheese with toxic waxy exteriors, correct?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, "And that in the process the stupid man had mixed his Brie with his Bitto and accidentally poisoned _himself_. However there have been three _other _near-fatal poison-related cases around the Norfolk area this week. Upon further inspection, the gourmet food distribution company Le Petit Chevre has its headquarters based a mere mile from the epicentre of the illnesses, hence a factory mishap and not foulplay on the lover's part."

Sherlock took a deep breath, "While getting ourselves tangled up in this misconception we completely overlooked the most important fact!"

By this point in his performance, Sherlock was crouched on top of the coffee table, bent in such a way that he was level with John. It was only once he'd stopped speaking that John really took in this fact. Mostly it was because now Sherlock rather resembled a skinny but demented toad, and his piercing eyes were boring disconcertingly into John's.

John sighed and humoured him, "...Which was?"

"Her _husband_!"

"What that meek little bloke who couldn't stop crying while we were round? I can't believe it would be him Sherlock. Her bit on the side was such a...such a..." John struggled for words which described the oily-haired, hook-nosed, 20-something CEO.

"Complete and utter bastard?"

"Well yeah."

"And my dear, dear Watson that was precisely the problem!" Sherlock cried, springing like a trapped coil from his squatting position on the table and moving in a spidery fashion from tabletop to armrest, traversing the room as if the floor were not worthy of his feet. "It was too obvious. Think back to her mail John, think back to all those letters from her lover we read. In between her correspondence we found an envelope addressed _not_ to her, but to her husband - presumably grabbed by accident when Mrs. Hissen heard the post arrive and was eager to get at hers. Ah but it wasn't to Mr. Hissen, was it? No, no. It was to DOCTOR Isaac Hissen, CONSULTANT COSMETIC SURGEON!"

John sat there non-plussed. Sherlock sighed and leapt down to the rug, pulling a picture from underneath a stack of ominously tottering journals.

He thrust it under John's nose and pointed with little tact at her chest.

"Yes, very nice." John muttered, then at an incredulous look from his friend, "So she had a boob job. So what?"

Sherlock moaned in frustration, "SO it was performed by her husband, very recently, going on the other pictures in their house. Used to be flat-chested, no more than a B cup, then suddenly BOOM, huge increase in size. Now, the substances used to construct false breasts are usually inert, mimicking real tissue in feel alone. However it would be only too easy for a man of his position to coat the implants in something a little more...deadly."

Sherlock finished this sentence with a flourish of his hands. "This, coupled with the fact that she was a twig of a woman, would never have eaten a large enough amount of cheese to poison her, proves it! One call to Molly and my theory will no doubt be confirmed."

"Brilliant," the doctor murmured. Sherlock bowed.

John couldn't help but be impressed. Even though he'd seen his friend perform these feats of intellect many times it still shocked him that someone could be so unrelentingly observant.

A few seconds passed in which the two men grinned at each other.

Then, "Right, fancy a Chinese?"

"Yes. Now you mention it, I'm starving."

xoxox

They'd only just finished the dim sum when John decided he really couldn't keep it in any longer.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" he said, tearing his vision from a kissing couple two seats away.

"You know you said you'd not even noticed I was gone this afternoon?"

The detective shot a furtive little glance at his friend, which would have gone unnoticed by someone who didn't know Sherlock like John did.

"Yes well I can't be expected to take into account your every absence John, not when I'm wrapped up in a case. Sorry if that dents your ego," he replied, a little snappily.

"Funny that," said John, smiling through a mouthful of prawn cracker.

"Why?"

"Well it's just that this morning you begged me not to leave."

"I did not!" Sherlock spat, outrage colouring his delicate cheekbones.

"Yes, yes you did. On bended knee. Might not count since I _think _you were on the ground studying floorboard marks anyway but it was still pretty desperate," smirked John.

Sherlock's face had actually gone puce. "John Watson if you do not keep your voice down I will have to remove myself from your vicinity."

"I've got a video too. Took it while you were pleading."

"I. Do. Not. Plead," Sherlock's voice had taken on a dangerously low tone, his eyes narrowed to small silver slits.

John was enjoying himself immensely. While he might be exaggerating the truth a little (a lot) and playing on the fact that when Sherlock did ask John embarrassing things he tended to repress them completely afterwards (like the time he'd asked in all sincerity if Albert Einstein was the one who invented the light bulb or the microwave).

Sherlock _had_ asked John to stay, and quite nicely too. There may even have been the most miniscule amount of lip-quivering when John had insisted he needed to work so Mrs. Hudson could finally have some rent, but nothing like John was insinuating.

"You do. And now Anderson & co have the video of it and everything. Wouldn't be surprised if it's Youtube's biggest hit by tomorrow morning," John laughed. This perhaps was too far given by the sheer fury in Sherlock's knitted brow and slits of eyes but John hadn't forgotten the whole 'dullard' jibe.

Sherlock stood without another word, and promptly left the restaurant. Definitely too far.

"Shit," muttered John under his breath, and hastily chucking two crumpled ten pound notes on the table he rushed onto the street and legged it after his friend.

"OI!" he yelled to the rapidly retreating scarecrow figure, "I was just kidding, you daft prick! Sherlock!"

The skeletal shadow stopped, turned and slowly walked back towards John, who was crouched with his hands on his knees breathing heavily. There had been no real leg work in a while.

"Look, I," Sherlock said stiffly as he approached, "John you know you shouldn't – I mean it's rather childish to-"

John patted Sherlock's arm awkwardly to let him know the apology (however unlike an apology it may seem) was accepted.

"I'd have thought," panted John, "that with a brother like Mycroft you'd be used to...well, teasing."

Sherlock's face darkened, "Our arguments were rather more underhand. Malicious in fact. Dangerous."

John grimaced at the thought of growing up in the Holmes household and the two began to make their way slowly back towards Baker Street. As they neared the door of their home Sherlock turned to his shorter companion.

His eyes were averted, his gaze aimed at the cobbled ground, the dusk-light illuminating all the delicate features of his sharp, intelligent face. Sherlock took a deep breath, and while exhaling said something so quietly John might have imagined it.

"I do appreciate you, you know."

"What was that?"

Sherlock looked up and bared his teeth in a grin.

"I _said _Molly texted and you are officially looking at the most perspicacious man this side of the Thames."

John shook his head in disbelief.

"You know when you backtrack you're meant to say something that sounds at least a bit like what you really said," John said, ascending the stairs to their flat.

"Yes," Sherlock smiled, "Social rules are far too boring. I've never followed them,"

John pondered this. It was true. He'd never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes before, and given the amount of time and patience and energy needed to deal with the man himself, he prayed he wouldn't meet another in the near future.

And yet...

There was no denying that without him life would be almost unbearable.

Sherlock turned as they reached the living room and in his unnerving fashion said, "I'm not going anywhere John."

"Me either," John said, trying to force a treacherous lump in his throat back to his stomach, "It's all fine. All fine."

xoxox

Later, in bed, Sherlock lay there delicately twanging the strings of his beloved violin. His mind drifted over all the small comforts of his life pre-John. The treasured instrument in his hand, the skull in the living room, his experiments in the kitchen and the mobile phone in his pocket.

He'd give them all up in a heartbeat now if he had to.

There was only one thing he'd ever really needed and he hadn't even known it til he had it. Had him.

His best friend.


End file.
